


Sequestered Persimmons

by FlamingMedusa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Bisexual John Watson, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Fluff, Engagement, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Friendship, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, No Mary Morstan, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 29,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29168250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlamingMedusa/pseuds/FlamingMedusa
Summary: Join me on my first adventure in writing to a prompt list AND posting to A03!  It's going to be a lot of johnlock fluff.The chapter titles are the prompts (obviously).
Relationships: Harry Watson & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Harry Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 48
Collections: February 2021 Johnlock prompt challenge from ohlooktheresabee





	1. Secret

**Author's Note:**

> This is for olooktheresabee's February Chaos 2021 Prompt Challenge.  
> I'm sure I'll add more to the tags and the notes as I go, and I'll keep an eye on the rating. I'm not planning on smut, but I haven't exactly planned what I've written so far either.  
> No betas, no Brit-picking. I'm doing this just because I keep looking at prompt challenges and thinking I should do them. This is me finally bellying up to the bar.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are in the fun, happy stage of being drunk.

“This tastes like duck piss, John.” Sherlock grimaced and sat the glass down.

Why did he never have his phone close at hand when he needed it? The disgusted nose crunch coupled with the faint sputters and protruding tongue were hysterical But he wasn’t wrong. Well.

“How would you know? Have you ever… Wait. Have you ever tasted duck piss?” This was Sherlock. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

“Well, no.” Sherlock scrunched his face. “But given what they usually eat this has to be close. Very mossy, with traces of brine and seaweed and a hint of industrial pollution. A pronounced slimy finish that coats the tongue and clears the sinuses.”

John giggled. “You’d never be hired as a sommelier, but I’d love to see you be one for a day.”

Sherlock rested his head on the back of the couch and smiled over at him. “Not drunk enough if you can still say sommelier.”

“Neither are you.” He smiled back.

“Not drinking more of this. Ugh. I need a palate cleanser.” He wrenched himself off of the sofa and sashayed into the kitchen. 

John grinned. Not drunk, but relaxed enough to release the iron control he had on his transportation. He didn’t usually constrain his hands, but at some point he’d learned to modify his walk. But watching Sherlock move was always enjoyable. 

“Maybe don’t pour it down the sink. Who knows what it will do to the pipes?” Probably nothing worse than the goop Sherlock had managed to create a month ago, which John thought had gained sentience and was happily snacking on the scraps that made it down the drain. There were days he swore he heard quiet burps after he finished the washing up.

“True. But are we sure we want to risk Mrs. Hudson’s bins?” Sherlock closed a cabinet door, and John thought he heard a bag rustle. Were there crisps? He hoped there were crisps, but he didn’t remember any. But it sounded like crisps. Maybe there was a crisps fairy, and she’d decided to pay them a visit.

“Cheaper to replace.” He closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock rustling through the kitchen. At least this bottle of wine hadn’t killed the pleasant buzz he’d started in the restaurant.

Sherlock grunted in response.

John braved another sip. Still as awful. And Sherlock was right, the finish did make him think of pond slime. “Are you sure this wasn’t one of your experiments?”

“You watched me draw the cork.”

“Hmpf.” As if that meant anything. “Is this the only wine we have in the house?”

“There’s a suspect Chardonnay.”

“How is it suspect?” Was it lurking with ill-concealed malice? Did it have designs on the tinned beans?

“I can’t remember where it came from or how long it’s been here.”

“Can’t be as dodgy as this. What was it?”

“Dunno. Deleting. Something from a client.”

“Not Mycroft?”

“No. He might despise me most of the time, but it would pain him to give me something that inferior.”

“Shouldn’t you remember so we can avoid this?”

“No. You and I have favorites that we are likely to buy when we purchase wine, and anywhere we go will be too proud to serve that swill.”

Sherlock returned, carrying clean wineglasses and the Chardonnay. There were no crisps, and John had no idea what had made the promising crinkling that made him think there might be. No crisp fairy then, either. Oh well. It probably wasn’t the done thing to eat crisps with wine.

He sat the bottle down and removed the dirty wineglasses to the side with such as thunderous look John thought he might toss them down and break them, then sat back down on the sofa.

“I’m not sure I could have drunk that at uni and I would’ve drunk most anything then.”

“Oh, I’m sure someone would, for a dare.” He looked up at John and grinned, and John could easily imagine a younger Sherlock goading other students into drinking, partially for the experimental value and partially for the enjoyment of watching them force it down. 

Sherlock fished the corkscrew out of his pocket and twisted it into the cork, the muscles of his arm flexing as he drew it out. He sniffed the cork, taking such a deep breath that his nostrils flared and John giggled.

“There is a faint miasma of enriched golden oak with prominent notes of sequestered persimmons.”

“Does what you just said actually mean anything?”

“Overall, much more promising.” He poured a sip into a glass and handed it to John. 

John swirled it around, sniffed, and sipped. “So much better. Here.” He thrust his glass at Sherlock.

Sherlock filled it, then his own.

“Cheers, John.”

“Cheers.” 

They clinked the glasses together and took a drink.

Sherlock turned so he was facing John, legs drawn up on the couch and his feet tucked beneath to keep warm. Pity, because that meant they were hidden and he really did have such elegant feet.

John studied the bottle, and a memory came to him. “Oh! It was a secret Chardonnay.”

“Secret! Why? It’s not good enough to remain a secret.”

“No, no. It was for telling a secret.”

“Oh?” Sherlock took a negligent sip of his wine, a lazy grin curled around his mouth. Damn if he didn’t look like the start of some of John’s better fantasies. 

John smiled over at him, and Sherlock’s eyes crinkled.

“I don’t think I have any secrets from you,” John murmured.

“You’re better at keeping them than you think,” Sherlock said. He swirled the wine around in his glass. “Is this a night for telling secrets?”

John thought about it, then shook his head.

“If you can’t speak it aloud, maybe it’s not ready to be revealed.”

“No,” John said. He swiveled his finger by his head. “It’s too dark. And this needs full light.”

“I see,” Sherlock said. “Do I owe you a new bottle of secret Chardonnay?”

John shook his head, then reached out his hand, laying it palm up. An invitation, if Sherlock wanted one: an indication, as if he needed it. “No. Pretty sure I won’t need it now. Might do, though. Hopefully it’s special.”

“A special occasion secret?” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. He transferred his glass to his left hand and placed his right into John’s waiting hand.

“Very special,” he said, smiling, and let his fingers gently curl around Sherlock’s. 


	2. Allergies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just really terrible (albeit thankfully brief) flirting between two idiots.  
> Likely the shortest thing I'll ever post.

“It’s a good thing I’m not allergic to insane idiot geniuses!”

“Very good. But. You could develop a sensitivity.”

“Oh, like latex? With exposure over time I won’t be able to be around you anymore?”

“It happens.”

“No. No, you idiot. It won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Hasn’t yet. I figure repeated exposure has built up my tolerance.”

“Like with arsenic.”

“Exactly like arsenic. I’ve built up an immunity and now it’s an addiction.” 

“An addiction?”

“Maybe a requirement? Now I need you to survive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skin sensitivity is how people can be fine wearing latex gloves one day and break out in a rash the next. Generally once you start reacting you'll have a reaction the rest of your life. As far as I know this is very poorly understood, so even if you're not allergic, it may just be that you're not allergic yet, and no one knows what the tipping point is and why some people develop sensitivities. (And now I think this note may be longer than the actual chapter. Yay me.)


	3. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up with a hangover and with demands, to exactly no-one's surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically the prompt is storm, but the comment from Howlynn on "Secret" (Chapter 1) got the gears turning. (On one hand, it’s why one should have a beta reader: on the other, I get to continue merrily along and textually correct myself, so. Draw?).  
> I actually hadn’t planned to continue the slightly-drunk scene, at least not yet, but Sherlock took great offense to being wrong when it was pointed out and this is what happened.

“I can’t believe I said duck piss,” Sherlock groaned. “And you let me get away with it.”

“I was drunk.” This was certainly the strangest thing he’d ever used that reason for. “I knew what you meant.”

“What I meant was guanine.”

“Oh, that rolls so trippingly off the tongue. Why not say just say avian excreta?”

“Why would I ever say that?”

“I don’t know. Why do you say half the things you do?”

These were John’s favorite arguments, where they argued more for the sake of the riposte than to win. Oh, sure, they did score points, but even as those were acknowledged they went uncounted. At least in the especially enjoyable discussions.

“Avian excreta,” Sherlock muttered, and John considered that a well-earned point.

“Well, if ducks could or did piss that wine was exactly what it would taste like,” John said. 

Were some of these ruffled feathers (ha!) for things not having gone further? But Sherlock looked much his usual self, and did not seem to have any qualms. A slight headache, perhaps, but no qualms.

A little part of him wished he had taken the opportunity. He was mostly glad he hadn’t. Sherlock could reason so many things away, and he meant to provide no opportunities, to be stone sober, clear headed, certain. There would be no thinking it would disappear in the light of day, that John was bound by words he didn’t mean because he was half-drunk and not entirely in control.

There would be no room or reason for doubt whatsoever.

“Oof.” Sherlock flopped down on the sofa and flung an arm over his eyes, “It’s too bright.”

“I’ll bring you some paracetamol.”

“And tea?”

John smiled at the demand. “Water first.”

“Fine,” Sherlock grumbled, bit it was clear he really meant _tyrant_.

John headed to the kitchen.

Of course there wasn’t a _please_ , and likely wouldn’t be a _thank you_ either. But you didn’t say _Please_ and _Thank You_ every time your significant other did something for you; you expected them to care, that they knew you appreciated what they did for you.

Sherlock had always expected John to care.

They’d always been like this. They’d had a relationship, a partnership, a commitment form the first day. John hadn’t recognized it because it came in a guise he wasn’t expecting, and Sherlock had intuited it, but because that wasn’t his area he hadn’t recognized it.

They were both idiots.

“John?” Sherlock asked. “Are you _formulating_ the paracetamol?”

“Oh. No. Sidetracked.” He waited for Sherlock to ask how he possibly was sidetracked getting a glass of water, but no such question came.

He put the pills in his hand and walked the water over to Sherlock, who sat up and opened his mouth.

“Honestly,” he said as he tipped them in.

Sherlock grabbed the gall and gulped half of the water. “It was more efficient.”

“I know.” He at least knew that Sherlock would claim that. He shook his head slightly and smoothed back Sherlock’s fringe, leaving the back of his hand pressed against his forehead.

“I’m not sick,” Sherlock grumbled, shutting his eyes and pressing into John’s hand.

“No,” John agreed. “Just slightly hung over.”

He let his hand drop to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock sighed. “Your hand feels good.”

He reached over and sat the glass on the table, and then tugged John in closer. 

John brought up his other hand and gently ran it through Sherlock’s hair, mindful of his headache. “We did have a lot to drink last night.”

“Yes. It might be a few days before I get around to replacing the Secret Chardonnay.”

“That’s all right.”

Sherlock dropped his head against John’s stomach and curled his arms around his waist, so loosely that John could slip away easily if he wanted.

He didn’t want. He gently carded through Sherlock’s hair, the soft curls wrapping around his fingers, and felt Sherlock’s arms incrementally tighten around him.

“Just feeling slightly out of sorts?”

“Yes.” Muttered grumpily into his tee-shirt, and confirmed with the weight of his head becoming heavier as he rested against John.

He could hear the pout, and it made him grin. “Tell you what. Let me go make tea and I’ll come back and sit on the couch with you.”

“How I want?”

“Depends. How do you want?”

“Like this.”

“Alright,” John agreed, even though he had no idea how to replicate their current position when seated. Maybe Sherlock just meant being close. Being held and petted. 

Sherlock leaned back, scowling. 

“I know, I know, quite quickly,” John grinned. 

Sherlock groaned and flopped back on the couch. 

Tea was not something that could be sped up, unfortunately. One had to wait for water to boil and leaves to steep, and any attempts to hasten the process lead to disaster. John followed his usual routine, but added honey to both of their mugs. He contemplated food but knew he wouldn’t get Sherlock to eat and wasn’t that hungry himself. 

Sherlock took the mug John handed him and sat it down. “Too hot.” He took John’s from him and sat that down too, and then pulled John down.

“Careful!” John yelped. Sherlock had snagged him just as he was turning to sit down, so he was surprised as well as worried about hitting the sofa the wrong way. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock managed it, but he found himself seated with a pillow in his lap and Sherlock on top of that before he was properly aware he was on the couch. 

Sherlock took several moments to fractionally adjust himself into the exact right position.

He could be testing him, or taking advantage of him. But John decided he didn’t really care. How could something be taken if it was willingly given? More accurate to say that it was claimed.

That _he_ was claimed.

Once he determined that Sherlock had adjusted everything to his satisfaction John set his hands down, one on Sherlock’s forearm, the other in his hair. He felt Sherlock relax. He’d been testing him a bit, then, but more to see if this was acceptable and would be permitted.

A storm-grey eye flashed open, regarded his briefly, and then closed. Sherlock made a contented little sound.

“I can’t reach my tea,” John pointed out.

“I don’t really want you spilling hot liquid on my face.”

“Understandable.” He didn’t really want to do anything else with his hands anyway. He could feel himself relaxing back into the sofa, aware of Sherlock’s large hands warm on his waist and his leg, the press of his shoulder against his outer thigh, the heft of his head supported by the cushion. It was intimate but not sexual.

“I didn’t think wine would make me feel like this the next day.”

“I’m still not sure that duck piss wasn’t an experiment.”

“Johnnnn. Why are you calling it that?”

“It has a nice ring to it. Even if it is inaccurate.” He ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair again, felt the detective take a deep breath. “And no, please spare me the description of what ducks actually do.”

“Fine.” Grumbling, and a head buried just a little bit further in the pillow, just a little bit closer to John.

John smirked. He was convinced that most of this was a pout about saying something so factually incorrect; a pout seasoned with a dash of hangover, a smidge of chagrin, and a soupcon of regret that secrets (although certainly deduced) had not been revealed.

They’d only sat like this for a few blissful moments when Sherlock’s phone pinged.

“Lestrade,” he sighed, but didn’t move.

“Of course,” John said. “Stay here until your head feels a bit better, then we’ll drink our tea and go see what’s afoot.”


	4. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John waits for Sherlock in the pouring rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure why this popped into my head for this prompt, but here you go. I did have a bit of trouble with this, because I made the mistake of reading olooktheresabee’s entry and really loving it and being blown away. It took a while to push it out of my mind enough to come up with something of my own. As far as I can tell it has nothing whatsoever to do with dance, or dancing, but we'll just pretend there's something deeply metaphorical about this, yes?
> 
> Did I actually manage to write a 221B? I think so! (Wow.)

Rain.

Sometimes he really hated rain. This wasn’t the worst sort, the cold driving rain that bit through clothing and crept into bones. This was merely thick enough to be miserable.

John tucked his chin deeper into his collar, keeping an eye on Sherlock. Once he figured out whatever-it-was there would be a mad dash. As usual he seemed impervious to the elements.

Sometimes he wished for dry desert air, scented with plants whose names he never learned, sharp clean scents that burned and sang of fire. _Wished_ wasn’t the right word. _Homesickness_ was closer to describing the longing, although not accurate. It had never been his home, nor did he wish to live there, but the word somehow captured the enormity of the yearning he felt, the depth of the connection.

_Nostalgia_ , perhaps; but that suggested a conviction that the fondly remembered had a particular perfection unlikely to be achieved again.

Sherlock started up, and it took John a few moments to follow. He could dimly make out Sherlock ahead of him in the rain, a shadowy figure barely more substantial than the mist.

Sherlock turned towards him, a confirmation, an invitation, then turned back around and dashed ahead into the darkness, fading away with every step taken.

John couldn’t lose him. One step, two; he fell in place behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I actually noodled this concept but it refused to plant (probably in part because I know nothing about rugby and nearly nothing about ballet). If it pleases you take it and run with it: 
> 
> What if John was a ballet dancer? He took ballet to be better at rugby? (Every so often I see a story about American football players doing that to improve their footwork, etc. so it’s not entirely out of the blue.) He’s a bit pleased Sherlock hasn’t somehow deduced this… yet. He’s waiting for the day.


	5. Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reflects on the life he thought he wanted (and worked for) and the one he now has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look! I managed another 221B! 
> 
> (I'm very impressed with myself, anyhow. I tend to be quite wordy so I thought that there was no way it would be possible for me to ever write something so short.)

This was not the life he was supposed to have wanted.

This was not the life he was supposed to have chosen.

He was supposed to have his own thriving practice, be an in-demand surgeon. Live in a big fancy house with a beautiful wife. That’s what he’d allowed himself to dream as a teenager; that was what he’d worked for, why he’d spent long hours studying. To prove that he was worthwhile, was somebody.

He’d been ruthless in cutting away anything that might prevent him from achieving that dream, become talented at denying those desires that did not fit and would not be welcome.

Instead: work as a locum surgeon. A blog. An antiquated flat that was more of a home than anywhere else he’d ever lived. A life full of the unknown. And an ethereal genius with wild hair and impossible eyes.

It was not respectable at all.

He was happy. And in all the dreams about renown and glory, he’d never thought to factor that in. Probably because he never thought he would be happy, could be, was allowed. The most he might be was respected, important.

How shocked his teenaged self would be to see this, to know that this was where they’d ended up: at a place beyond his wildest dreams.

This was so much better.


	6. Power Outage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm that reminds John of his time in Afghanistan causes a power outage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently this is my actual go at the "storm" prompt. The power outage is just a nice bonus. :)

There was something liminal about storms, something that made John half-believe that, for a moment, it was entirely possible and perhaps even extremely likely that he could enter another world.

He would never say such a thing to Sherlock, of course. Sherlock, who should have entered his life on wings of lightning and with warning peals of thunder. He did seem like he could step out of another world (and a minuscule part of John would never be convinced that he hadn’t done such a thing) or–much more worryingly–leave this world to go back to wherever he’d come from. Surely he was just as remarkable there.

This storm had hung over London all day, growling and threatening, underscoring every interaction with a building tension. The clouds had darkened the entire afternoon, casting a pall over even the most benign exchanges, and the wind had died completely before sunset, contributing to the eeriness. 

John had been glad they’d been back home when the wind went still. That meant nothing here in London, not really; but he’d been stationed places where the lack of wind was an ominous portent, a harbinger of sound and fury. 

Sherlock had caught his increasing tension as the day went on, giving him several considering glances but not commenting, although he had streamlined his deductions and chivvied John along so that they returned to Baker Street while the storm was still gathering, eschewing their usual dinner out for showers and take away.

The shower was brilliant, in part because Sherlock had left him enough hot water for a change, and it settled him a bit to pull on his softest tee shirt (at least of the ones he had remaining; Sherlock had pilfered his favorites) and worn jammies. John allowed himself a moment to sprawl on top of his bed before heading downstairs.

The flat was still dark, and Sherlock a mere shadow against the window. 

He could so easily be a creature of storm. John shook the thought from his head and went to stand by him, accidentally stepping too close, but he could not bring himself to pull away, and Sherlock did not react to his proximity.

“Look at the sky.” Sherlock twitched the curtain further aside, as if that would help him see.

There was a strange cinnabar tinge to the clouds, and John could not tell if it came from the sunset or the reflected lights of the city or was something inherent to the clouds themselves. 

He shivered, hating how jumpy he was. 

“This reminds you of storms in Afghanistan,” Sherlock surmised. 

“Yes.” Not only of storms, but of the quietness and sometimes the unexplained strangeness. Not hauntings, not exactly: but odd things that did not belong to the proper daylight human world that were glimpsed on nights like this. Things he’d never talked about with anyone else in his unit, or in service; things he couldn’t even begin to mention to anyone else who hadn’t been there and experienced their presence.

He didn’t have to believe in any of these; he had seen them. But he had no drive to convince others of his experience or their existence. He couldn’t imagine trying to describe them to Sherlock.

It was all too easy to envision these creatures arising, perhaps even heralded by the storm. He shifted closer to Sherlock, so they were not quite touching but he could feel the heat of his body and even the softness of his breath, smell his familiar clean scent.

They stood for a moment, quietly alternating between watching the street and watching the sky. 

“I believe that’s our food,” Sherlock said, and a moment later the car he’d somehow picked out came to a stop in front of their building. He squeezed John on the shoulder and went thundering down the stairs. 

John had managed to make his way to the kitchen and dig out plates by the time Sherlock came back, bags dangling from both hands.

“That smells delicious,” John said.

“Is it alright? It seemed a good night for spicy food, but…” Sherlock shrugged, his head ducking down.

“Too on the nose?” John suggested, and he nodded.

“It didn’t occur to me until I was heading back upstairs. I knew you’d been thinking about Afghanistan —”

John quirked an eyebrow.

“You were rubbing at your shoulder more than usual. And thinking about Afghanistan made me think of spicy food and… that may have been a bit not good?”

“It’s good,” John said. “Besides, you’re forgetting how often I ate boring English rations over there. Shepard’s pie might have done me a turn.”

Sherlock grinned at him, eyes sparkling, and John smiled back. 

They loaded up their plates and made their way to the sofa. Sherlock left room for John to sit with him. It shouldn’t have relieved him as much as it did.

“You know this is Thai, right?” John asked. 

“You like Thai,” Sherlock mumbled. 

“Idiot,” he said, and smiled. “Thank you.”

Sherlock discussed the case, but even he seemed caught in the ominous atmosphere and did not go into many details. John was glad for the company, the soft press of Sherlock’s leg against his own, the way their bodies would touch as they shifted around. 

Sometimes these after-case nights reminded him of the best nights after rugby matches, when there was the relief of being clean and relaxed and knowing that nothing more would be demanded of him and that he had performed well and had reason to celebrate. These nights were even better, but he had nothing else to truly compare them to.

There was that satisfaction, that relief tonight but it was undercut by the uneasiness brought with the storm, by the stillness outside. 

John was still pushing food around his plate, not as hungry as he usually was, when the rain started, a hard pounding sheet that deluged from the clouds with no advanced warning. A low growl of thunder accompanied the burst.

The air immediately seemed to lighten, although an unease remained. 

John sighed in relief. 

“Should we open a window?” Sherlock called over.

“Only if you want to get everything wet.”

But when had property destruction ever stopped him? He sat his plate on the coffee table and went to pry the window open. Apparently common sense struck, because he only opened it a crack. John came to stand besides him.

The rain was deafening, Baker Street barely visible. 

John nudged Sherlock with his shoulder. “Thanks for getting us home before this broke.”

“Of course.”

Splatters of rain made their way through the small opening, the fat drops breaking and scattering to mist. At first it felt refreshing, but the rain was surprisingly cold. 

Sherlock shivered, but made no move to step away from the window.

“I wish I had a barometer,” he said. “The readings today would have been quite interesting.”

“You think everyone was reacting to barometric pressure?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s one explanation.”

He didn’t offer others, and John did not ask, nor did he point out they didn’t need a barometer, or that Sherlock probably had an app that would display the information. A barometer would certainly fit in with the aesthetic of the flat, and it would be more equipment (and more data) for Sherlock’s experiments.

A blinding streak of lightning was followed almost immediately by a sharp crack of thunder and then the sudden deep quiet of the power going out. The rain seemed even louder.

Sherlock faded to shadow, even standing so close, and John could not resist the impulse to reach out and confirm that he was flesh and bone, blood and sinew. He grasped Sherlock’s arms and the detective turned towards him, silver eyes almost glowing with the next lightning strike.

Breath, and flesh, cold beneath his touch. John pulled him closer, putting his arm around his waist and resting his forehead where his hand had been. Sherlock did not make any objections, instead relaxing into his grasp. He continued to watch the storm.

The rain had eased but not abated when Sherlock stepped away. He closed the window, then turned back to John and grabbed his hand and led him to the couch, steering him by memory around several important piles. He kept hold of John’s hand as he settled them back on the couch.

“It’s not just the barometric pressure, though,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

“No,” John agreed, and internally sighed. He really didn’t want to have this discussion with Sherlock, especially now in their flat that had become strange in the darkness (though not unwelcoming; Baker Street could never be that). 

Night had fallen as the storm began; the flat grew darker and darker. One of them probably should get up and light candles. Were there candles? At one time he’d brought some for an ill-considered date (back before he’d learned that it was a bad idea to try to have any date at the flat), but that had been – well, years ago. Sherlock had probably done something with them by now.

“No sense in worrying about light,” Sherlock said. “We each have our phones and we could start a fire if we really wanted.”

“No fire,” John said, then winced. Sherlock would be able to deduce more that he’d meant to tell him with how quickly he’d replied. Well. Any information Sherlock wanted he could drag out of him.

“No fire,” Sherlock agreed, and softly squeezed John’s hand. He managed to free the afghan that usually covered the sofa and cover both of them. Somehow, when he was done, John was next to him and their joined hands were now sitting on his thigh instead of the sofa.

There were so many battles he’d fought, was still fighting. Why this? When winning would not be an advantage? It was not a fight he’d wanted a part of for a long while. He leaned against Sherlock, who shifted so they were both comfortable, but made no move to pull him closer, although the invitation was clear: he could move closer, if he so wanted.

They sat quietly, watching as the lightning faded away and the rain turned to drizzle. 

“It would be all too easy to believe in creatures of mist and shadow, smoke and flame…” Sherlock murmured. 

John shivered next to him, still half-convinced Sherlock was such a creature. “You try to convince yourself of any reason that can make it be stupid and simple and not what it really was. You miscounted the men or you blinked or someone didn’t set up the wiring right or… What people don’t understand is that you want there to be a nice, sane, logical explanation.”

And now he was in for it. He took a deep breath in anticipation of a barrage of questions.

“The way you’ve been looking at me,” Sherlock started, then seemed to flounder. 

This was at once so unexpected and yet so in tune with his own thoughts that John was momentarily at a loss. “I still can’t believe you’re real, sometimes.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, so John continued.

“When we first met you astounded me, and the world was totally different for knowing you. And then…” John swallowed. “And then you came back, and that is so impossible and you’re so fantastic and surely I’m making you up.”

“I’m real,” Sherlock murmured.

“Are you?” John whispered. “Some days I think you insist on the rational so I won’t look too closely and realize how impossible you are.”

“Impossible?” Sherlock breathed.

John turned to face him, shifting hands so he could reach out and touch Sherlock’s face. “So clever and brilliant and funny and annoying and the most amazing person I know, my very favorite person who somehow likes me too. Impossible.”

Sherlock’s face was cold under his hand, but the skin warmed to him touch and he could feel his jaw moved when he swallowed, felt him duck his head a bit and knew the pleased smile that would be on his face even if he couldn’t quite see it.

He let his hand drop and drew a deep breath, reassuring himself, then let his head rest against Sherlock.

“What would convince you that I’m real?”

“I don’t know.” Not if Sherlock pressed against him wasn’t enough.

Sherlock freed his hand and slowly ran it up his arm, over his shoulder, up his neck to cup his jaw.

“Would this?” A soft press of lips against his own, an awareness of warmth and substance. 

“Would this?” And Sherlock did not wait for an answer but trailed kisses down his neck.

“Yes,” John sighed as Sherlock pulled back. He pressed Sherlock’s hand against his neck.

“Sometimes you seem just as unlikely to me,” Sherlock murmured. “Just as unlikely, and as easily lost.”

“I’m much more likely than you are,” John protested.

“Prove it.” He knew the mischievous look Sherlock would be wearing, the delighted sparkle in his eyes.

“You and your empirical data,” he grumbled, even as he was trailing his own hand up Sherlock’s arm, shifting so he could get closer. Sherlock moved next to him, and after a few awkward movements he found himself kneeling in Sherlock’s lap.

“Would this?” Sherlock whispered, and pulled John to him.

“It helps,” John admitted, and leaned forward to kiss him. The hand on his thigh flexed, and Sherlock made a pleased little noise that convinced John’s libido he was entirely real.

He pulled back after a moment, and Sherlock sighed.

“I’m thoroughly convinced this sofa is real,” Sherlock grumped, and John chuckled.

“I’m not quite thoroughly convinced you are,” John said.

“Hmm.” Sherlock said, and dusted kisses over his neck. “I have an idea to help with that.”

“Oh do you?”

“I always have ideas, John.” There was just a tinge of annoyance, but it was replaced by a smirk. “I have to say, though, I think this is an especially good one.”

“I’m all ears.”

“If you are I shall be terrifically disappointed.” 

Sherlock gripped his hips and pushed him to a careful stand, then stood up himself. He took a breath, and it seemed that his bravado had deserted him.

John reached up. “You won’t lose me,” he whispered, and kissed him.

“I should hope not,” Sherlock huffed. “It’s a short walk.” But they both knew that wasn’t what John had meant, and his renewed grip spoke of returned confidence and certainty.

He edged out so he was in front of John and led him carefully out of the living room and into his bedroom. 

They stopped by the edge of the bed; the mattress pressed against the back of his thighs. Sherlock’s warm hands gripped the hem of his tee-shirt, and he pulled it over his head, still slightly damp and clinging from the rain. He ran his hands over John's bare chest.

“What about this?” he asked, and John shivered with want.

“It might help,” he allowed. 

A brief flail of arms and a wet smack meant that Sherlock had pulled his own tee-shirt off. He found John’s hands and settled them on him waist.

“And this?”

John could feel Sherlock’s deep voice vibrating. He ran his hands up his sides. 

“Not entirely convincing,” John said, and dropped his hands to Sherlock’s waist and began to inch his jammies down.

“I assure you the drawstring is quite real.”

“Sorry.” John said, giggling. He found the strings and pulled.

Sherlock worked at the drawstring on John's jammies, and his large hand carefully cupped John as he eased his clothes off. “Now that I’d like to believe it quite real.”

“I shall do my best to be utterly convincing,” John said, then started giggling again.

Sherlock pushed him down on the bed and then knelt over him. John pulled him down into a kiss, Sherlock’s grin resting against his own.

And then his hands and his mouth started moving over John.

“Would this convince you?”

“Would this?”

“Would this?”

“This?”

“Oh yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” 

Yes.

John slowly opened his eyes. Soft light filled the room, and a warm living weight pressed along one side.

He turned his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze, then raised a hand and ran it through his mussed curls.

“I’m still real.” Sherlock grinned. “I’m still here.”

“So am I.” John replied, and kissed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love this, and I never would have written it had I not participated in the prompt challenge. 
> 
> I got the idea for John's hinted-at supernatural experiences in Afghanistan from the Spooked podcast. Highly recommended if you like people narrating the supernatural things they've experienced. There's no episode that directly correlates, but several involving soldiers/being out in isolated places that I definitely was thinking about when I was trying to describe John's unease.


	7. Cereal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is woken up by an irate Sherlock.

“Johnnnnn! Are you trying to kill me?”

John covered his face with his pillow, screamed, and then removed it to yell back. “There would be no trying!”

He contemplated the likelihood of being able to go back to sleep. He wanted to, badly, but he knew that if Sherlock was already yelling at him at arse-o-clock in the morning he might as well give up on the idea.

The alarm clock by his bed said that it was 5:15, which was too bloody early. He’d thought he’d never see this hour again after he left the RAMC, at least not unless he had kids. And children weren’t likely, unless something utterly bizarre happened and he ended up adopting.

One could count the bored, petulant detective downstairs, however, as an unlikely child. 

John dropped the pillow back on his head and let himself grab a few more blissful seconds of sleep. It wasn’t the good sleep, though, but the sleep where you know the alarm is just about to go off so there’s no use. In this case the alarm would be a stroppy man with no snooze button. 

But John wasn’t going to make it easy on him. If Sherlock was going to accuse him of attempted murder he could at least haul his arse upstairs to be obnoxious.

Even if this was the bad sleep it was blissful. He managed almost a minute, keeping an ear out, before footsteps thudded up the stairs, sounding like Sherlock had the size and grace of an elephant. How he managed that when he was normally so quiet… yet another mystery of his continually vexing flatmate.

“John!” Sherlock flung the door open.

John didn’t bother to remove the pillow. “What.”

Maybe Sherlock would think he wasn’t there. He was entirely buried under the covers… He didn’t even bother with the lecture on boundaries, or personal space, or respecting people, even though he did heave a little sigh at giving up on all of those.

Sherlock collapsed on top of the bed.

Normally this move caused John to squeak in alarm and sit up, becoming as small a target as possible for flailing limbs. This time he was too tired to bother, and so Sherlock ended up partially across his chest.

Could he sleep like this? If the git would hold still.

No such luck.

Sherlock bounced next to him until he wasn’t crushing John’s lungs, thank goodness, or any of his other vital parts.

“Johnnnn…” A hand lifted up a corner of his pillow.

John smacked it, and the pillow dropped back with an offended “Ow!”

He doubted he’d hurt him, but at this point he didn’t particularly care. 

Sherlock rolled over until he was laying parallel with him. What did it say that the man was in his bed enough that John knew what he was doing? ( _Not often enough, really_ … but he quashed that thought before it could develop).

There were a few options: make Sherlock uncomfortable enough that he never came to John’s bed again. That wasn’t on for several reasons, not least because doing so would probably precipitate a days-long sulk and make their usual interactions awkward. Also, John could admit, he didn’t want Sherlock to become wary, on the off chance Sherlock would ever actually want to be in bed with him for a reason other than annoying him. So could he make Sherlock comfortable enough maybe the idea would occur to him to stay? To come up and not be annoying? The potential for misunderstanding seemed enormous. No. He could tickle him. That would at least surprise him, and perhaps make him think before disturbing him for a week or two.

This was ridiculous.

Sherlock was radiating heat, and John decided to scratch every other idea and take advantage of that. He scooted closer, pressing his body against Sherlock’s even though he didn’t touch him. He knew Sherlock well enough to know it might make him uncomfortable, but Sherlock might expect it. Or he might write it off to John’s sleepy state.

John was almost asleep again when he felt Sherlock move… to tuck his blankets around him.

When he woke again Sherlock was still on the bed (it didn’t count as _in_ if he was on top of the covers) and it took John a fuzzy moment to remember him coming up the stairs.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“You are trying to kill me.”

“And so you’re sleeping with your murderer?” John asked. He moved the pillow to the side and leaned up, yawning.

“Technically I didn’t sleep,” Sherlock protested.

“Fine. Why did you wait for..”

“Two hours and 42 minutes.”

“Why did you wait for two hours and 42 minutes?”

“I was comfortable.”

“Next to a person you accused of attempted murder?”

Sherlock glared at him, and John grinned.

“Sherlock. Exactly how am I trying to murder you?”

“Cereal,” he muttered.

“Cereal,” John said. Nothing nefarious came to mind. He hadn’t done anything to the cereal. He’d bought some new cereal, because it had been on sale…

“It’s disgusting, John.” Sherlock complained, scrunching up his nose. “It tastes almost the same, except it turns to mush almost immediately and that is despicable.”

“And that will kill you,” John said, fighting the urge to giggle.

“Eventually,” Sherlock said. “I won’t eat anything in the morning and I will eventually waste away and it will be your fault.”

“Because you either can’t make toast or can’t wait until I get up,” John said.

“The cereal would still be atrocious even if you poured it,” Sherlock said. “Also we have no bread.”

“You are ridiculous,” John giggled. “And very lucky I love you, or I would actually kill you.”

He flopped the pillow over his face again and giggled. Eventually he became aware of Sherlock statue-still next to him, and he started running over what he’d said.

Oh.

What were the chances he could spend the rest of the day (the rest of the week, the rest of his very short life) with a pillow over his face?

Was Sherlock even breathing? He sighed and removed the pillow.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and dark, and he seemed more pale than usual. John snuck a hand out of the covers and grasped Sherlock’s arm, because he looked like he was ready to bolt and ready to faint, and he didn’t want Sherlock to do either one, but at least he could prevent the running away. He couldn’t do much to prevent fainting.

“I did mean it,” he said.

“That you’d kill me?”

“No. That I love you.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked. “Why?”

John tried to collect his thoughts. Why, indeed.

“It is a legitimate question,” Sherlock said. “You were just threatening to kill me. And had just hit me.”

If he hadn’t known Sherlock so well he would have missed the uncertainty and the hope.

John took a deep breath. “I love you because you’re the most remarkable person I’ve met. You’re brilliant and funny and kind and obnoxious and irritating and wonderful.” He closed his eyes, gathering his courage. _Sherlock had tucked him in_. “And I’m also in love with you, for the same reasons. And more, but it’s really hard to enumerate when I’m just waking up and haven’t had coffee.”

Sherlock stared.

“But just to be clear,” John said, “I’m still mad that you woke me up at 5 over fucking cereal.”


	8. Skeptical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is skeptical that John is ready to be out and admit to their fledgling relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far everything has been from John's POV, maybe because I'm working on a longer story that's from Sherlock's point of view (and with a very cold and miserable weekend ahead of me, maybe I'll get it finished). Once I noticed that I had to write this in Sherlock's. 
> 
> And I'm way behind on prompts. I've been writing them each day, but have had difficulty getting them edited well enough to avoid the Burrowing of the Palpable Worm of Shame to post. That's what a 10-hour workday plus Life will do to you. 
> 
> The Worm of Shame is gleefully borrowed from Unless, by Carol Shields. The first time I read that I felt it in my soul.

Too bad he’d told John that he’d already solved the case. Otherwise he could have used that to get out of going.

Could have used that to drag John out of it too.

But no, John had some interest in going, so it would be mean to drag him away. It wasn’t like some of his awful dates.

Sherlock was still unclear on what this thing was, other than a gathering of people that John somehow knew, whether from childhood or university or the army or Bart’s or his job: those details weren’t important. 

John hadn’t asked. No. He’d mentioned it, and Sherlock had opened up his big mouth and volunteered, and what had he been thinking and why had he done that? 

What had come over him? Oh, part of it (most of it) was not wanting to be alone in the flat without John on a cold evening. John had shown a shocking proclivity to cuddle, and he rather enjoyed that. 

He also wasn’t quite keen on John going alone where there might be people who didn’t realize John was his. John knew, of course, but John was nice and clueless and would probably feel sorry for them and start talking to them and might accidentally lead someone on. No. John needed Sherlock to watch out for him and stop that from happening.

“I’ll go with you.” 

He must have looked shocked. John had looked over at him and grinned. “Apparently neither of us are sure where that offer came from.”

Sherlock had grinned back and decided not to explain his reasoning (for lack of a better term). “I will go, if you’d like.”

It belatedly occurred to him that maybe John wouldn’t like. These were people he knew, in some capacity, and surely he wanted to impress them and Sherlock would open his mouth at some point, and John would spend most of his evening doing damage control and that would not be impressive and worse, might cause John to reconsider this whole thing between them.

“I would like,” John said. He gazed at Sherlock, and a lascivious grin appeared. “I’ll have the sexiest plus one there.”

Sherlock felt himself start to blush. Knowing John found him attractive and desired carnal relations was one thing. Hearing him admit it, being looked over like he was edible, was an entire gourmet feast of all his favorite foods and John was starving, was an entirely different beast.

Maybe he’d get used to it once they’d been together for a while. Now it shut his whole system down, and he was left stupid and mute, blinking at the mug in John’s hands.

He hoped they’d be together long enough for him to get used to it, even if he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to get used to that look.

He hoped he would never do anything that would make John quit looking at him like that.

John sat his mug on the table and pushed his chair back, as if to go to his chair. Sherlock hoped that his volunteering would at least be rewarded with a kiss. He really liked kissing when John was the other participant. 

“You know.” John began, as if he were talking about some of his boring patients, “You are absolutely irresistible when you look like that.”

“John, I…” he tilted his head back to see John.

John took that opportunity to swing onto Sherlock’s lap.

“Hey,” Sherlock said. This close, his brain shorted out. Luckily John seem to find that adorable rather than worrisome.

“Hey,” John grinned back, and started kissing him, the sort of kiss that lit up his entire Mind Palace, illuminating rooms he hadn’t even known were there. (That was a danger with most large buildings – the rooms might be identified as one thing on a blueprint, have a given purpose, but daily use had assigned a new function. In real buildings this led to lost corridors, hidden doors, secret cupboards. In his Mind Palace it led to growth).

He still couldn’t decide if this thing with John was going to destroy his brain or improve it.

John pulled back, all fond mischief. “I think a proper thank you is in order.”

“Oh?” Sherlock quirked a brow.

“Yes. It may be quite involved.”

“Hmm.” He attempted a serious look, but that was ruined by the grin he couldn’t quash.

“So. Are you busy right now? Or do you have time to be thanked properly?”

“You may want to wait to thank me properly until after this event,” Sherlock said, against his own best interests as he looked around, cataloging the various experiments and their status.

“I probably do not want to know how many experiments you’re concurrently conducting,” John said. “I do want to thank you now because it means a lot to me that you would offer.”

“I have time to be properly thanked,” Sherlock said. He moved his hand so it was underneath John’s vest, worked his fingers just under the waistband of his pajamas, letting his hand rest on John’s hip.

“Consequences?” John’s hands came to rest under his own tee-shirt.

“No fires, no explosions. At most I might have to restart an experiment.”

“Acceptable,” John said, and then his brain must have gone offline, because he smoothed Sherlock’s fringe back. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Sherlock replied, and John pulled him close and started kissing him again.

The show of appreciation only moved when the chair started creaking underneath them. It briefly visited the sofa and ended up on John’s chair. John refused to even contemplate the kitchen table (“I don’t care how many movies it’s in. I don’t care that it’s a staple. You cannot get that clean enough for bare skin.”). Then back to the sofa where he trapped John by wedging him between his body and the back.

Was it a trap if John wanted to be there?

“You know,” Sherlock said, after he caught his breath. “I think today is Mrs. Hudson’s day to host rummy.”

John laughed. “You are such a menace.” But then he’d kissed him and snuggled down with the clear intent of staying.

So. For that, volunteering had been worthwhile. Now he would hopefully make it through the evening without doing anything that John would find too dreadful and make him regret his association with Sherlock.

 _Association_. Really. But he still didn’t know what to call this thing between them.

And oh, crap, how was John going to introduce them? They’d never specifically said what they were to each other. Boyfriend? Partner? Helpmeet?

They hadn’t even discussed what they were to each other! Why did he think this would work?

Would John have asked him? Should he have volunteered? Did John really want him to go? John had seemed happy about it, so Sherlock tried to still the doubting small voice in his head that insisted John hadn’t wanted him to come, no matter how enthusiastic he’d been in expressing his appreciation.

Sherlock gave the address to the cabbie and watched London pass by outside his windows. 

They had been _this_ a month. Mrs. Hudson knew, and Mycroft. As far as Sherlock knew, John hadn’t told anyone else. No one at the Yard had picked up on it (proving once again that they missed the obvious in front of their noses).

It wasn’t like they were hiding it, either, but John’s denials from before the Fall had been adamant, and apparently everyone they knew had given up on them ever getting together.

Sherlock had to admit that he had no idea how he would inform someone that they were now… what? Dating? A couple? Together? But then, he wasn’t the one with experience in this area.

And he was mostly truthful in his claim that he didn’t care what people thought of him (and therefore one could extrapolate that he didn’t care what people knew, or didn’t, about him) but he could admit to himself that he wanted people to know they were something to each other. More than friends.

Dedicated. Important. Inseparable.

(But they had been that before, they’d always been that.)

But was John ready to claim that? So much of his persona had been based on his reputation, how charming he was, how likeable, how women wanted him. For him to stand besides Sherlock and claim him, to say that he had found a relationship with a man that was fulfilling…

That might take some more time. 

And it wasn’t like people even wanted to claim to be his friend; only John had done that. Maybe friendship would be all John wanted to claim in public. 

Sherlock sighed, mentally steeling himself. He could live with John not identifying him as his whatever; he would not stand for it if someone asked and John claimed they weren’t together.

He wanted to be claimed, to be identified as someone important, with a known place; he wanted a link and a tie that other people understand, even if they could comprehend the whole of it. 

_Arriving in 5_. SH

 _We’re at a table in the back. <3_ JW

The cab pulled up in front of a trendy restaurant that could not decide whether it was a combination of a café or bistro or pub. It was crowded, which might be a sign the food was good but probably only meant it was a popular new concept this month and the food would be bland.

He warily pulled the door open. At least the interior was dim and someone had realized that soundproofing was an advantage; the chattering of the diners was understated.

Movement across the room, and he saw John standing up, waving at him. He quickly nodded at the hostess and headed across the room.

John pulled out the chair next to him, and Sherlock came to a stop besides him. John’s hand rested on the small of his back.

“Everyone, this is my… my Sherlock.” Sherlock caught the nervous tremor in his voice, but he doubted anyone else had. So he didn’t know what to call him either.

“Sherlock, this is…” and then John said a lot of names that he only paid half-attention to. 

Greetings were called out, he found himself welcomed, with John helping him out of his coat with a smile that lit up his eyes. 

He had never grinned like that at Sherlock in front of people before.

Sherlock sat down. John had managed to claim the side of the table that faced the room. He could deduce if he got bored (quietly, inside his head, to tell John after). John pulled in his chair next to him, resting his hand on Sherlock’s chair.

“So your handsome man comes and you shove him in a corner?” one of the blokes asked.

“Yeah, don’t you want to show him off?”

“Shove it, you lot,” John grinned. His leg pressed against Sherlock’s, and his arm remained on the back of the chair, a light warm connection.

Sherlock placed his hand on John’s leg and leaned back against his arm, stupefied. 

_My Sherlock_.

The words fizzed in a warm, pleasant buzz, overwhelming him. He was so distracted that he neglected to deduce people; but they seemed more interested in reminiscing about old times and mocking presenters at the conference they’d just attended (and oh yes, that was it, people John used to know coming for this conference, and someone suggesting it would be nice to get together for old times’ sake…)

Sherlock mostly let the conversation wash around him and over him, making a few pointed comments when addressed but otherwise marveling at how John Watson, once again, had surprised him. 

The food was somewhere between the predictably bland and the surprisingly competent; Sherlock, as usual, helped himself off of John’s plate and mostly ignored his own. He did catch a few looks at that, but no one said anything.

At least everyone was tired from the conference, and called it an early night. The convivial farewells went quickly, and much sooner than he’d hoped he had John to himself again. 

John leaned against him in the cab with a happy little sigh. He took Sherlock’s hand, tangling their fingers together.

“I still can’t believe you’re mine,” he said quietly. “I hope you don’t mind that I introduced you that way. I blanked on how to say what you are to me.”

“I am yours,” Sherlock said. “I liked it, actually.” He thought about telling John he also had no idea how to say what he was to Sherlock, no inkling as to what to call him that would denote his importance.

“Good.”

Several more streets slipped quietly by. 

“Do you know, I think a couple of the women would have gladly knocked me off if they thought they stood half a chance with you. Silent. Brooding. Charismatic. A perfect romantic hero.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

“Oh, I know. You’d figure it out immediately and seek justice for my untimely demise.” John squeezed his hand. “They’d never have a chance.”

As if that was what Sherlock had meant at all. He opened his mouth to correct John, to say that he was no one’s hero, and particularly not a romantic hero, that no one could want him, to say that he wouldn’t last a day without John, and thought better of it. Best not remind John that he was the only one crazy enough to want Sherlock. Also, it seemed a bit not good to discuss his certain death following John’s on such an unexpectedly pleasant evening.

John paid the fare and let them inside Baker Street. Once in the flat he pressed Sherlock against the door and snogged him breathless.

“What was that?” He wanted more, now. 

“The snog I should have given you earlier, except I didn’t want to panic the straights,” John said, nibbling down Sherlock’s neck. 

“I think you would have panicked everyone,” Sherlock gasped.

“Mmm. It’s also the proper thank you after the event.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles with how to define their relationship in this story. Let me use that to highly recommend "Applied Linguistics" by what_alchemy, in which he searches for the right words - and makes many of them up. It's utterly charming. (And I will hopefully figure out how to link it.)  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/234203


	9. Velvet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to Harry’s house for dinner. One unexpected benefit is going through old pictures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry and John discuss their childhoods and that they were not prioritized in vague terms, so if that's a thing for you maybe skip this.  
> (In other words, this prompt got a little heavier than intended.)

“Well, if we’re doing this thing proper, guess you’ll have to meet my sister. It had to happen eventually. She’s wanted to meet you for years, but…” John shrugged. “The time never seemed quite right.”

As Sherlock well knew, older siblings existed to make your life difficult. Had he anything to say about it, John wouldn’t have met Mycroft. He assumed the same went for John, but upon meeting Harry, Sherlock understood why the time had never been right before. Her quiet look between the two of them, the smile that blossomed on her face, was more telling than any boisterous reaction.

And John had admitted (not in so many words, mind you, but Sherlock wasn’t the world’s first consulting detective for nothing) that that was pretty much why he hadn’t introduced them. He’d always felt this way. Harry would have picked up on it.

Harry invited them to dinner, and while Sherlock normally would have tried to get out of it he wanted to meet her, because that meant more information about John and he was weak enough that he was willing to do more than sit through a dinner for that.

He was instantly at ease with Harry, and while a bit of that was because of John, she herself was delightfully blunt. Unlike John, she was not attached to presenting a certain view of herself. That comfort in her skin had been hard-won.

Some of John’s nerves were likely because he worried about Sherlock making a favorable impression. Some were because he as steeling himself for commentary on finally coming out. John was starting to become comfortable, but was still wary.

Sherlock had expected a reconciliation. He’d expected hugs and stories and support.

What he hadn’t expected were the pictures.

The evening had gone quite well: a good dinner, with enough stuff Sherlock especially liked that he knew there’d been conspiring, and a great meandering conversation that wove through their childhoods, various adventures, and commentary on the current day and proved as entertaining as it was informative.

Also Harry didn’t bat an eye when he started to talk about the morgue, although John gave him a kick under the table.

“You don’t have to wound him, John. Unless your kink is taking care of him.”

“Harry!”

“I’m not one to judge.” She’d smirked at them. “If I didn’t want to hear what Sherlock was saying I’d let him know.”

“Sorry Harry. Sorry, Sherlock.” John sighed. “So many people don’t do anything except give vague hints and if he gets going he can miss them.”

“So you injure your boyfriend to make other people comfortable,” she said. John winced.

Sherlock decided he quite liked Harry Watson. He gave her an appreciative smile even as he decided to step in and support John.

“He is more aware of emotional nuances than I am, and that is invaluable.”

“I’m not surprised he’s good at that,” Harry said. 

John gave her a puzzled look.

“Oh, you know, with how we always had to mollify the folks,” she said. John had nodded. There was a story there, but Sherlock didn’t push. The few stories John had told him about his childhood has suggested a severely dysfunctional family: as a small child he would have become very adept at reading emotional cues to avoid confrontations.

John volunteered to help clean, and he and Harry disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock on his own which displayed an unwise level of trust if they thought he wouldn’t look around. But by this time John likely expected it and was giving him a chance to explore. He stood up and went to look at the pictures he’d noticed earlier, some of which included a young John. 

Soft voices and splashing came from the kitchen, a fitting accompaniment to his review of family photographs. 

“You look so much happier.” Harry’s voice carried out to him, and Sherlock felt warm with the thought that he had something to do with that. 

“Yeah. I really am,” John said, and then “Ow! What was that for?”

“Taking so damned long,” Harry said.

That was followed by a splash and a yelp.

“Children!” Sherlock called out, and heard them both start to giggle.

“Cheeky!” Harry reprimanded. She came out of the kitchen and snapped him with a dish towel. “Especially given that you’re the youngest here. And, I’m given to understand, the most prone to mischief.”

Her stern glare lasted all of three seconds before she started to giggle again.

“But apparently the most mature,” he said, which earned a snort from Harry and a “Ha!” from John as he emerged from the kitchen.

John tucked an arm around him. “Oh. You’ve found the _We’re a Family, Dammit_ pictures.”

Harry sighed besides him. “In case you’re wondering, the full title of the collection is _We’re a Family, Dammit, and We Will Act Like One At Least Once a Year_.”

“Which we obviously couldn’t manage,” John said. “If you’re wondering why there’s not a full set.”

“Well, _we_ could have managed,” Harry muttered.

“Yeah, you’re right,” John said. “How did we have it more together than the adults did?”

“We’re sane?” Harry murmured.

John reached out to touch a picture of an unsmiling young Harry in a dress, long hair hanging straight down and huge plastic frames dominating her face. “Where did you even get these? I don’t think I’ve seen most of them.”

“I found ‘em in a box in the shed when I was visiting the folks the holiday after Clara and I had broken up. You know Mom occasionally gets on her kicks.”

John nodded. “So you needed to sort through all the stuff that’s yours and cluttering up her space?”

Harry snorted. “Yeah. Found a bunch of pictures and decided sod it, I’d take ‘em. Hang ‘em up or put them in proper albums.”

John looked back at the picture Sherlock had been studying, the one that showed the youngest version of him; a tow-headed boy of ten or so, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes in a sports uniform with his foot on a ball.

“I bet Mom doesn’t even know they’re gone.”

“Of course not. She’d have to care first.”

Sherlock almost held his breath, convinced that he’d been forgotten. This was old, elemental pain, not the sort you aired before strangers.

“Why do you even have these up?”

“Someone ought to,” Harry said. “If they couldn’t even bother…”

John moved to stand in front of an older, casual picture of the both of them: Harry scowling on the top of a stone fence, John leaning on the fence next to her. They looked like they’d been interrupted from some discussion. Both wore band tee-shirts, ripped jeans, trainers. A flannel shirt half-shrugged off her shoulders, and her short hair glowed in the light; Sherlock couldn’t tell if she’d tried to spike it or if the wind was ruffling it up. John had the lithe look of most athletes, but his expression was serious. His hair was down to his shoulders, which seemed so contrary to the John Sherlock knew he spent several more moments that usual cataloging it for his Mind Palace because he kept trying to make John’s hair short.

“They should have known then….” Harry muttered.

John giggled. “Well, it was the style.”

“Yeah, but look how we rocked it!” She shoulder-bumped him and he snorted.

“We did,” he agreed. “Do you have any more of my pictures?”

Harry nodded. “I put them in photo albums. I figured you’d want them someday. When you settled down.”

She smirked at him, and he tried to glare but a light blush dusted his cheeks.

Were all elder siblings prescient?

“Can we see these pictures?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course.” Harry beamed at him. “Come here. Sit. John, be a dear and make us tea, will you?”

Harry disappeared down the hallway and John into the kitchen. He’d not expected this easy camaraderie with Harry, not the fondness she and John apparently held for each other.

John came out with a tea tray and had set out their mugs before Harry returned. He sat down in the middle. “You two will conspire against me, I know it.”

Harry returned, carrying a thick album. “Only one tonight, I think. I tried to choose the one I thought Sherlock would most want to see.”

“Please,” Sherlock said, reaching for it. 

“Don’t forget I get to see your baby pictures,” John said. “I’m sure there’s one of you doing something embarrassing.”

“John. When have I ever done anything embarrassing?”

“I dunno. Give me an hour with your mother and I’m sure I’ll have all sorts of stories.”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said, and John chuckled and opened the album.

The first few pages were of baby and toddler John, and while it was interesting to see how his features had transformed they did not reveal much about his doctor, so he wasn’t that interested. 

But then he turned the page, and a small child with hair so pale it was almost white glared defiantly in front of a mottled blue backdrop. 

“John? Are you wearing a maroon velvet suit?”

“Not by choice,” John mumbled.

“You were adorable!” Sherlock said, delighted. 

“Were?” John elbowed him. “Am I no longer adorable?”

He glanced over. John grinned at him, and he realized that John was only teasing him (only teasing!) and that he knew Sherlock found him charming. Sherlock grinned instead.

“Velvet is such a fussy fabric. Why use it in kid’s clothes?”

“I dunno, man. The 70s were wild.” Harry tapped at the picture. “At least you missed the scrapbag dresses. I looked like I’d been tossed on a wagon to settle some godforsaken prairie in America. And no, you will never be seeing those pictures.”

“I didn’t have any velvet outfits,” Sherlock said.

“You were probably too young to experience that particular joy. Although you’d look good in velvet. Of course you look good in almost anything…” John leaned in, and whispered, “And even better in nothing at all.”

“John!” he hissed, alarmed and delighted.

Harry chuckled. If she hadn’t heard what John said she could certainly guess. John smirked besides him, unperturbed.

“Ready?”

Sherlock nodded, and John flipped a page.

The photo that caught his eye showed a young John in front of a birthday cake, eyes wide. It was a homemade cake with several toy cars stuck in the frosting.

“I don’t think we even washed those,” Harry murmured.

John chuckled. “Well, we lived anyhow.”

Sherlock was done with the toys. “Oh, those curls.”

Harry looked over John’s head. “He had so many girlfriends when he was little. It was adorable.”

“I did not,” John protested. A blush started to dapple his cheeks.

“Well. So many said they were. He was kind of oblivious to that.”

“Shocking,” Sherlock said.

Harry snorted and John glared at him, but his lips were twisting in a repressed smile. He nudged John’s leg and gave him a grin. “I find it quite possible to believe he’s always been a heartbreaker.”

“I knew I’d regret introducing the two of you,” John groaned.

“Oh, I expect we can get up to all sorts of trouble,” Harry said.

“As if this one needs any encouragement,” John said, but snuck an arm around Sherlock and gave him a squeeze.

John grew from page to page, year to year; a quiet boy turning into a determined youth. Sherlock could discern no reason for the milestones commemorated, nor the casual moments captured.

“Powder blue?” Sherlock asked, horrified. “When was that an acceptable color?”

“Probably when you were six,” Harry said.

“It’s not even the right shade to bring out your eyes,” he complained.

“I really don’t think that color did anything for anybody,” John commented.

“And that fabric. I can feel how terrible it is from here.”

The last picture in the album was John before leaving for uni; he stood next to a car, a contained smile on his lips as if he was afraid to reveal how happy he was. He was wearing another worn tee-shirt, dark green with the lettering faded beyond recognition and several patches thin from wear, and jean shorts. His skin glowed – he seemed to glow – and it sucked Sherlock’s breath away, how young and bright he’d been. 

Before war and injury, grief and heartbreak: this boy was so pure it broke Sherlock’s heart. There was still a shadow, though: this boy had never turned John’s full smile on anyone, had never lit up as if the sun shone within. 

Now that the shadow was gone it was easier to notice.

He wanted this picture. He exchanged looks with Harry. 

“I can’t believe I was so proud of those damned shorts,” John finally grumbled.

“I can,” Sherlock said. “They fit you very well.”

“Bit not good,” John mumbled.

“Why?”

“I’m so much younger there than you are now. Makes it weird.”

“But I wouldn’t like this picture if it wasn’t you,” Sherlock said. “And I don’t like you now because of how you were then.”

The Watsons exchanged commiserating looks.

“Better you than me,” Harry said. “Especially because I see his point.” She reached over and shut the photo album.

“I’d forgotten a lot of those existed.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Thanks.”

She placed the photo album on the coffee table. 

John sat up and stretched. “We probably should be going.”

“I’m glad you came,” she said, standing up. “And that I finally get to meet the man you’ve been obsessing over for years.”

“Harry!”

“Can’t deny it.”

John sighed the martyred sigh of oppressed younger siblings everywhere. “Well I could, but it would be pointless.”

They followed Harry to the door and waited while she dug their coats out of the hall closet.

She beamed at both of them, then hugged John. “I’m so happy for you.”

John hugged back, just as fiercely. They stood that way for several minutes, and Sherlock thought he saw John tremble, as if he was beginning to cry.

Harry let John go with one last beaming smile and turned to Sherlock. “Finally,” she said, and he knew that she meant _finally we meet_ as well as _finally you two are what you should be_ and _finally John is happy_. 

“Finally,” he agreed, and hugged her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fairly pleased with this, but I think it needs more work and I'd like to go back and get John's take.


	10. Handle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was not a text from Sherlock that summoned him, but Lestrade.

“He’s already driven off three officers and made a family member cry.”

John watched Sherlock pace. He must be in a mood to not even have acknowledged his presence.

“Can you do what you always do?” Lestrade asked. “Talk to him? Handle him?”

John could tell the moment that Sherlock heard those words. His back stiffened, and he snapped his magnifying glass back in his pocket with a precise movement that spoke of contained rage.

John sighed. “That is not what I do. I handle you lot for him.”

Sherlock glanced at him, apparently trying to read his sincerity, making sure he wasn’t being appeased. The look from those sea-glass eyes was cutting, but he must have believed John, for his shoulders dropped and he took a deep breath and turned back to the corpse.

“Now. The pertinent details and how you lot have managed to fuck it up. Because you really must have done something, mate, if he’s this annoyed.”

Lestrade started in on an explanation, and John listened as he took in the scene.

Long and long and long ago, before the Fall, John might has agreed that he handled Sherlock. After all, everyone told him he did, and it was a lovely ego boost, as if Sherlock was a particularly flighty Thoroughbred that only he could bridle. Had agreed, and that betrayal twisted like a knife in his gut.

He wasn’t sure when his understanding had changed. When Sherlock had returned? Now he… translated, he supposed. Sherlock Holmes did not need to be handled, like a gun or a bomb. He needed to be respected.

After Lestrade finished his summary, John gave him a look and cleared the officers out to give Sherlock space and quiet. Lestrade knew better. What had he been thinking?

He took in the scene himself, wondering what all he was missing as he did so. Dead body, modest flat, blood. Oh, one could get more specific, but those specifics didn’t seem to alter that it was much like any other crime scene: could have been staged as a training exercise. 

So what had put Sherlock is such a mood? If it was truly a boring regular homicide, he would have deduced it and left before John had even had a chance to arrive. He carefully circled the room, taking in details (and wondering what he was missing), and came to stop on Sherlock’s right side, where Sherlock could feel his presence and he could block some of the distractions.

He might be pants at deducing the crime scene, but he knew Sherlock, knew that this attitude had come from several things, a cascade of events just wrong enough to irritate, and then someone must have said or done something; and for all Sherlock liked to pretend he was impervious, his shields could be easily breached if he was in the wrong mood or the exact wrong thing was said, and he could be grievously wounded.

He wouldn’t ask. Sherlock might admit it. Or he might never talk about it. Pushing him to speak didn’t help. He also didn’t touch, knowing even his well-meant gestures would only irritate him further, although he ached to lay a comforting hand on Sherlock’s arm.

He continued studying the scene, hoping to pick up some detail that would be the exact right stupid thing that would help his detective.

“See anything?” Sherlock asked, his voice flat. There must be something intriguing about this murder, or he’d have stormed out long ago, but for the life of him John couldn’t guess what. 

John shrugged. “It looks like a stereotypical flat murder. Could have been set up for a training exercise.”

Could have come out of any number of the murder mysteries he read.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and looked around, a scowl still dark on his face. Not that John had thought that that storm would flow over so easily. A quick widening of his eyes was all the warning John got before Sherlock sprang to his feet. “Come on, John!”

He dashed out the door, and John fell it step after him.

“What? Where?” Lestrade sputtered behind them.

John shrugged and shouted back. “I’ll text.”

They had to walk about a block before Sherlock was able to get a cab, John pushed to keep up with him even though he knew Sherlock was aware of him and modifying his stride enough he didn’t outpace him entirely. 

Sherlock gave the cab driver an address, probably based on the stain on the edge of the counter and the cleaning patterns on the carpet. John didn’t ask. Sherlock was still, but he could feel the pent-up energy emanating from him.

“You meant it, then.”

No need to ask what he was referring to. “Yes.”

He glanced over at Sherlock and let the detective take him in. Sometimes this willingness to let Sherlock deduce helped him, although John never knew what conclusions he reached.

Sherlock turned away after a moment, his face still, and took a deep breath.

“Can I do anything?” John asked. He laid his hand on the seat, palm up, as an offering should Sherlock want contact, although he knew it was unlikely Sherlock did.

Sherlock shook his head and pulled into himself. “It’s all…” he waved his hand, and John nodded, but left his hand out, just the same.


	11. Swimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is getting accustomed to John acknowledging – and acting on – his attraction. Or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I wasn’t planning on smut, but these two idiots evidently were.  
> Me: OK guys. Swimming. So. Water, pool, beaches, ocean, lake, something metaphorical (swimming in emotions, drowning in love)… any ideas?  
> John: I’d like to see Sherlock in a Speedo. 
> 
> So, ratings changed to explicit, just to be on the safe side.

“Did you have swimming lessons when you were a child?” Sherlock asked, stepping off of the couch and regarding the photos. The house had a pool, and while he didn’t think it had anything to do with the case, it did remind him of something he didn’t know about John.

“When I was about ten. I was a champion dog-paddler before that. Now? Nothing fancy.” He shrugged. “I can not-drown with some competence.”

“I bet you’re better than that.”

John tucked his finger in his book and sat it in his lap. “You probably did.”

“Yep. They tried to get me on the swim team.”

“You?”

“I’m a good swimmer.”

“I could see that,” John eyed him. “Just not sure about you being on a team.”

“That was where it fell apart,” Sherlock agreed.

John continued gazing at him. “Did you like swimming?”

“Yes. Very… focused. Soothing. I didn’t want to make it a competition.” He liked it best when he was by himself, the pool empty, no echoing shouts or loud noises.

“I’ve never seen you swim.”

“There’s been no reason.”

“I’d love to see you in a Speedo.”

“I don’t have to swim for that. You could just ask.”

“Yeah, but… you being wet is definitely part of it.”

John moved the book to the table, the soft thud as he set it down an indication that this had changed from banter to something more primal.

“Oh?” Sherlock asked. John gave him a lazy smile that stirred his desires, probably because he was very definitely conjuring exactly what Sherlock would look like in a Speedo and enjoying the results.

“We should go swimming one day,” John said, standing up.

“That could be fun,” Sherlock breathed out. Why was this banal conversation having this effect on him?

John stepped closer, letting his gaze linger over Sherlock’s body, and the resultant grin meant that he liked what he saw very very much.

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. Sherlock had never seen anyone look that way before. He had, technically, no mind palace clue as to what it meant, no mental definition.

His body was well aware of the meaning.

“Watching how the water rolls down your body, how the fabric clings…” John licked his lips.

He shivered. “I can. Um. See the appeal.”

This man, he thought, has a Reputation. It was sometimes easy to forget, and he’d done his best to overlook the inconsequential flirting when they were just friends. It was easy to discount it, or dismiss it, until the full impact of the gaze hit, until that charm focused. Until he felt himself responding.

“I’m thinking a private beach. Pool. Whatever.” Another step.

“Mycroft. Could. Probably.” He had no idea what Mycroft could probably do.

Another step. John was close, but not touching.

“Maybe a deserted island for what I want to do to you.”

Sherlock was a bit surprised at just how interested he was in appearing in a Speedo before John. At least if John looked at him like that. He shifted to make himself more comfortable.

John didn’t glance down, but he definitely caught the movement and understood the reason for it. His smile sharpened. He became dangerous.

John was a wolf. He was the Big Bad Wolf.

Sherlock was not Red Riding Hood.

Sherlock was a piece of cake left for wolves to gobble up.

John prowled a step closer.

Every nerve, every sense Sherlock had screamed that he was prey and John was hunting him. He couldn’t move.

John stopped and deliberately looked him over. As if he could see a wet, mostly naked, definitely aroused Sherlock before him instead of a sloppy genius with bedhead, fully covered in dressing down, shirt, and pajamas.

The grin he gave after looking Sherlock with his look (and gods, he hadn’t been touched but there was still something so physical about it) was hungry.

He’d had a glimpse of this that first night. No wonder he’d panicked and said that idiotic thing about being married to his work.

John backed him against the wall. “Although seeing you in something skimpy and tight would be… acceptable.”

“Only acceptable?” His breath caught, and it was hard to form the word.

“Mmm.” He licked his lips. Sherlock swallowed. “You wouldn’t be wet.”

He stopped in front of Sherlock, and moved his gaze to watch his hand.

“Water would trickle down here…” he skimmed Sherlock’s neck and then his chest, the tee-shirt dragging his knuckle. His hand kept going lower. Sherlock swallowed. “Rolling along the edges of you hips…”

He gulped. Even when he was a teenager he’d never come in his pants. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to be able to claim that much longer.

“Down your legs…” Fingers skimmed over the top of his pajamas, pressing just enough to remind him that he was very interested in what else they might do, where else they might touch.

“I would have to follow each and every drop with my tongue,” John murmured. 

Sherlock whimpered. Thank goodness John had never turned that look on him when on a case. He was a bit unclear on how a discussion, a regular, reasonable discussion about swimming lessons, had turned into this.

He really wanted to know so it could happen again.

John reached up to Sherlock’s robe, gripped the lapels. “OK?”

He nodded. Clothes could not come off quickly enough.

John tugged the robe over his shoulders, then down his arms. He watched as the robe pooled at his feet, then grasped his hand and drug his teeth from his elbow, down his forearm, over his palm, then took his fingers into his mouth.

It was tantalizing. It was torture. It was a tease.

“Each and every drop…” John said, sliding his fingers out and oh, he was just tormenting Sherlock now. 

He tugged at the hem of Sherlock’s tee-shirt next.

“Yes. Yes,” he panted, forestalling the question, trying to help John remove the shirt faster.

“So gorgeous,” John murmured, running his fingers from his neck down to the waistband.

“You’d look like a god, standing there,” he continued, and trailed his fingers over Sherlock’s chest. He knew that the touch was light, almost nonexistent, yet it burned in his skin. He expected welts to rise where John’s fingers trailed.

“And the way water would drip here,” John licked over his nipple, and he gasped. John’s fingers kept up their light, meandering trail.

He was dizzy. He was weak. He had no idea why he was having this reaction.

He started shaking.

John stepped closer, gripping Sherlock and pressing them together…

“Fu…”

“You haven’t deleted Speedos?” John asked, fingers lightly teasing over him.

“N… no,” Sherlock gasped.

“We might have trouble finding one to fit you,” John said, softly stroking his through the fabric of his pajamas. “But that is part of the fun of you wearing it. The tighter the better.”

He throbbed as John took him in hand, his hands warm and greedy. John ignored the slight thrust he managed with his hips.

Sherlock swallowed a whimper.

“And what color?” John purred, pressing into him.

Sherlock shook his head. What even were colors?

“Black would be too obvious,” John murmured, as nonchalant as if he was still in his chair, as if they were arguing about crossword clues. 

“Oh?” Sherlock somehow managed.

“Yes,” John said. Sherlock felt a tug at the drawstrings. “Red wouldn’t suit. And too many people would look at you. I don’t want people looking at what’s mine.”

He slid his hands inside his jammies and worked them slowly off Sherlock’s hips and over his erection, letting them fall to the floor as soon as they were clear. He knelt down and guided Sherlock out of them, then tossed them to the side.

Sherlock managed to tilt his head to look at John, still kneeling by his feet, and that was a mistake. His eyes were dark and hungry, and a wave of lust shook him, staggered him back against the wall, left him to John’s mercies. 

John leaned forward, his tongue on the inside of Sherlock’s knee. He slowly trailed up, the heat of his mouth and the barely-there soft caress calling forth a new erogenous zone. Fuck. How could someone barely touching him with his tongue feel amazing?

Because it was John.

His hot mouth ghosted over Sherlock’s erection. “I’m thinking turquoise,” he said, and licked up his cock, still trapped in his boxers.

He continued licking up his chest. He tipped his head to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, slotting them together as he did so.

“I would lick you all over. Your neck. Your back. Your cock. Your balls. Your perineum. Everywhere that water had touched you.”

He ran a finger up Sherlock’s arse, the touch tantalizingly light. “I’d turn you over and lick your delectable arse.”

One more delicious roll, and Sherlock was coming, clinging desperately to John. John held on, and that was fantastic too, having his support as Sherlock came undone.

They stood for a moment, catching their breath. Sherlock didn’t let go. He was almost embarrassed to look at John. John had barely touched him.

“You OK, sweetling?” he murmured into Sherlock’s ear, smoothing his hair back.

“Sweetling?” Sherlock mumbled, sure John felt the smile he was trying to hide pressed into his neck.

“Yes.” John continued to hold him, continued to run a hand lazily up and down his back.

He nuzzled into John’s neck.

“Like that, do you?” John murmured, and turned his head to gently kiss Sherlock’s jaw.

“We could have done this in the shower.”

“Next time.”


	12. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he does accompany John, Sherlock can be quite entertaining to shop with.

“There’s not enough salt here to preserve a body.”

John bit back a grin. “Did you need to pickle a body?” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed an older woman move away after shooting them a concerned look.

“Well. Not today.” Sherlock huffed and replaced the box of table salt on the shelf. 

“So this is for a future need, then.”

“One never knows.”

More fellow shoppers started to clear away, although John thought he saw a few hardier souls snickering into their shopping baskets.

“Would this, by chance, ever be my body?”

Sherlock glared at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Yeah. _He_ was the one being ridiculous.

“I’d doubt a Tesco Express has the proper kind of salt,” John said. “Maybe a proper Tesco, but more likely a hardware store.”

Sherlock was always entertaining to shop with, and sometimes (like today) John wished he’d accompany him more often. It would certainly elevate a tedious task. And so far he hadn’t gotten them banned from a store, although that day was probably coming.

“Couldn’t you just make some?”

“As if I could get ahold of that much chloride,” Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft has me on some kind of list.”

He waved his hand negligently, and John bit back his original reply. Instead, he placed some sugar cubes in their basket.


	13. Boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has John invite Harry over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I used the word "boss" in this.  
> Another prompt that gave me fits, and I could think of nothing clever to do with it. I looked up 'boss' and found that it also refers to a raised ornamentation on a belt or shield or an ornamental architectural block (say that 10 times fast) and that is all very cool but my brain went... nah.

He was probably going to be responsible for the Apocalypse.

Not only had Sherlock suggested that they invite Harry over, he was now happily chatting with her.

Sherlock. Chatting. To his _sister_.

He lost track of the conversation as their voices lowered. Harry had offered to help him with cleaning up, but Sherlock had grabbed her arm and dragged her over to the sofa, waving with his free hand for John to continue cleaning.

“You’re a host, too!” John reminded him.

“Boring!”

Harry started chucking. “Yeah. Total mystery why you like this one, innit?” She’d nodded toward Sherlock and he’d grinned down at her.

He’d flipped them both off and gone into the kitchen, somewhat shell-shocked that Sherlock was that keen to talk to Harry (and what would they talk about? He couldn’t fathom). 

At first he’d only been going to deal with anything requiring immediate attention. Over the years he’d gotten very good at kitchen triage: put food away, rinse dishes, tidy enough to not want to trash everything in the vicinity when he finally had time to deal with it, and then leave, usually to chase Sherlock out the door. But as he stood wiping his hands on the dishtowel he heard them talking, and decided to let them be for a while. It was rare for Sherlock to enjoy anyone’s company. So he cleaned the kitchen and simultaneously worried about what they were talking about while being happy that they got along.

When he finally emerged they were seated close together, heads bent over something, intent.

Harry murmured, “And this is when John—”

“Oi! No tales out of school!”

Their heads both snapped towards him. They were both smiling.

Apocalypse.

“You’re not the boss of me!” Harry stuck out her tongue.

John snorted.

“Too late, anyhow,” Sherlock added with a smirk.

Hopefully it would be limited to a local Apocalypse, although the way they got along…

“Tea?”

“Please.”

“Of course.”

They were still chatting animatedly when he emerged again. For a moment he felt entirely superfluous, but then Sherlock caught his eye and grinned, then shuffled oven to make room for John at his side. They kept on the topic, however. 

Oh great. “I Was a Gay Teenager” stories.

He didn’t really feel he could participate. He’d been aware he liked both, but also that that really was A Bit Not Good. He’d wanted other guys, had fantasized about them, but luckily he’d never fallen for anyone. Had never allowed himself to fall. If he'd said anything he’d lose his friends and all his activities. Likely would’ve been kicked out. He still didn’t want to contemplate how his father would have reacted when he’d heard. And he would have heard. When people idealized small towns they never thought about how quickly news traveled, and the fact that everyone heard.

“What I hated were all the questions about dating,” Harry said. “Boys are allowed to be brooding heroes. Girls are just expected to be broody.”

“No one dared suggest I needed to date,” Sherlock said. “I think they were afraid to contemplate it.”

“Did you want to?” John asked. “Was there, I dunno, someone you thought was cute?”

“Cute?” Sherlock asked.

Harry started choking on her tea at his expression. She waved at him to continue.

“I wouldn’t necessarily classify either of them as cute,” Sherlock said, “but there were two that I would have liked to spend some time with.”

“Oh?” Harry grinned over at him. “Do tell.”

He steepled his hands. “I was quite certain of their proclivities, but I wasn’t sure if they were fully comfortable with them. Additionally, I had a reputation that would have sullied theirs, and nothing to potentially offer that could have compensated. There was also a certain bit of protecting my own skin in not approaching them or admitting to anything more than knowing of their mere existence.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed.

He sat his hands back down, one coming to rest on John’s leg. “Also, I was well aware of my social failings. Believe it or not, I am nowhere near as abysmal at interactions now as I was then.”

“I think John dated enough for the both of us,” Harry said.

Sherlock grinned. “An early start to your reputation?”

“Shut it,” John said. He could feel himself starting to blush.

“All girls?”

He nodded.

“There were boys you liked,” Harry said.

He almost snapped a protest before he realized he didn’t have to: this was no longer a secret. No longer shameful. Would he ever get accustomed to that?

“More than two, even,” he said, setting his hand on top of Sherlock’s and giving a gentle squeeze.

“Would you have dated them? If there were no repercussions?”

He nodded, struck silent. He was hit, again, at how much had been stolen from him. From them. How they’d been robbed of the simple joy of first crushes and silly flirting and group dates and the awkwardness of dances and… He’d at least got to experience some of that.

“I… yeah,” he admitted, when he found his voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the abrupt ending. I like that it stopped on John literally (and maybe metaphorically) finding his voice, but the scene is definitely not complete.  
> I'm going to have to write more Harry, and will probably pull anything involving her into a more complete story at some point.


	14. Ugly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple question leads to some very unexpected answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to say this is crack. I really have no idea what it is.   
> (Ugly, Argument, and Trinket are all parts of the same story.)

John had seemed perfectly at ease carrying the toddler around, snuggled into his side as if he did it every day, murmuring soft low words in a comfortable drone.

“You’re good with kids,” Lestrade remarked after the boy had been handed off to the appropriate authorities.

John shrugged. “I deal with a lot of them at the clinic.” A wry smile. “I have found that keeping lollies in my pocket works for soothing just about anybody.”

He tossed one to Lestrade, and then went to stand by Sherlock.

“Lolly?” he offered.

Sherlock shook his head. He had just glimpsed John in a different life, a life where John had a wife and a tow-headed child with his eyes and his smile.

He was standing in the way of that. It was an ugly feeling, this small gnawing pit in his stomach that told him he was holding John back, that John would have a better life without him. A normal, happy life without him. Another twist as he considered that John had wanted that life, sought after it, when they first met.

John was gazing thoughtfully at the scene, his mind clearly elsewhere. They still had a bit of a wait before they could do much more: the case wasn’t over yet, and he really should concentrate on that, but he had to know this _now_.

“Do you still want children?”

John looked up at him, about to say that this was neither the time nor the place, but something on Sherlock’s face altered his reply. He frowned, then took a deep breath. 

_(And please don’t let John say that Sherlock was like a child. That was infuriating and condescending.)_

“I always planned to get married and have kids, the whole nuclear family,” he started, gathering his thoughts. “It was part of proving that I was someone. A sign. A symbol that I was successful. Maybe a chance to do better than the folks.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a frown quickly flitting across his face as he watched the officers. “For the longest time, the only thing a family meant was a wife and biological children. And now. Hell. There are so many more permutations of family than I ever dreamed. It wasn’t even in my wildest fantasies when I was a kid that two blokes would be able to get married in front of God and everyone, have it be all legal and proper, much less that they could adopt or use a surrogate.” He snorted. “Hell, not even the science fiction I read got that far out.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Sherlock said, after a few more minutes of John staring unseeingly at the police, trying to ignore the cold growing inside at the _I had always planned_ ….

“There are days when it crosses my mind, especially as so many people I know have children. It sometimes feels like I… didn’t get the memo, I suppose.”

He eyed Sherlock, as if trying to determine the reason for his sudden, desperate need for an answer – and his lack of response.

Sherlock was not prepared for the conclusion that John came to.

“I consider what we have family,” John said, with a slight smile. “I’ve never pictured you as wanting a child, but hell. It’s not like having a kid is out of the question. Maybe not the most obvious thing, but if it was something we really wanted, yeah. It’d be an adventure. We’d find some way to make it work.”

Sherlock, besides him, was struck dumb.

John continued, unawares. “We could get married. We could have kids, somehow. It’s probably lucky we can’t have one naturally. We’re in enough trouble as it is. Could you imagine someone with both of our genes?”

Sherlock shook his head, his mind a complete blank. He could feel himself blinking. He couldn’t have heard any of that correctly, must have misunderstood something.

“You would marry me.”

“Yes.”

“You would have a child with me.”

“Yes, you silly mongoose. I would.”

“Mongoose?”

“Yes,” John said, unrepentant. “I thought lemur might work for a bit, but I think mongoose is more appropriate.”

“You’ve been thinking on nicknames for me?” He meant to sound disdainful, but that didn’t work. John had undone him.

“Yes.” John managed to keep his expression serious. “Keep you guessing.”

“Oh.”

“I thought you realized all that.” He gave a casual flick of his hand to indicate the life-changing, Mind Palace-crumbling statements he’d uttered.

“You would have a child. With me.” For some reason that was what he was stuck on.

“Sherlock,” John smiled. “I’d do anything with you.” He shifted so he bumped against him briefly.

“I…” his mouth snapped shut. He had no idea what words came next. John would do anything with him. Including having a child. He had no idea how to conceptualize that. How to react to that.

“If that wasn’t what you were asking, well.” John shrugged. “There are some people who have always wanted to be parents, feel deep in their soul they wouldn’t be complete without. I’m not one of them. And if I do get maudlin, feel the sudden urge to pass on life lessons, there are always programs that need volunteers, plenty of kids that need a mentor. Maybe that would be better. Just think of having two of you. Oh gods, the shenanigans.” He sounded more wistful than afraid.

Here was another ugly truth. “It never occurred to me that I would be this old. I didn’t expect to live this long. I gave no thought to any kind of legacy.”

John gave him a look, but didn’t say anything.

They watched an officer take more photographs, and Sherlock restrained an irritated sigh. How long had they worked with him? And they still couldn’t take the right pictures?

John hid a smile next to him. The smile faded as the officer photographed a toy. “We fail children so badly, in so many ways.” He sighed, but didn’t complete the thought.

Sherlock must have been staring blankly (there was a certain wild euphoria in knowing that sane, reasonable John would have volunteer to have a child with him that crushed all other feelings), because John nudged him and raised an eyebrow.

“If it’s not clear,” he said, “you’re the family I want. That I chose. That I will continue to choose.”

“I worry I’m holding you back. Preventing you.”

“Preventing me from what?” he asked. “Sweetling, I wouldn’t trade the life I have with you for another. You are my family. Just the two of us. That’s enough for me.”


	15. Argument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John start using their hypothetical children in arguments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A companion of sorts to "Ugly" and "Trinket."

“John, I refuse to have a child with you if you keep on hounding me about eating.”

“Well, I can’t have a child with you if you starve to death!” John tossed his hands in the air.

“Why would you have children with him?” Lestrade asked as they watched Sherlock stalk off, probably in search of a moor to brood upon.

“Who else would I have children with? And we’re talking one child. One.”

“For starters,” Sherlock yelled without turning around.

“Wait. Is this argument about anything? Or just your hypothetical children?”

“Both. Neither. I don’t know any more.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... captures the concept. Trinket got away from me, and in order to keep up with the prompts I opted to post this drabble. (This might actually follow Trinket in the linear scheme of things.)


	16. Trinket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have an involved discussion several days after the events of "Ugly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a bit heavy at times.

“I think Harry could donate.”

John looked up. “Donate?”

“Eggs,” Sherlock said.

“That’s a lot to ask.” He shut his book, marking his place with his finger. “Besides, I think she’s too old.” 

“Ha!” Sherlock said. He waved a journal, causing bits of paper to flutter out of it. “Did you know all of that information about maternal age comes from one data set from a study in the 1890s in France? There’s been nothing since. That’s criminally negligent.”

John blinked, then set his book on the end table. “You’re putting a lot of thought into this.”

Sherlock flushed. John’s keen gaze seemed to bore into him, making him feel that he’d revealed something he hadn’t intended to, had taken this more seriously than he should have. Had mistaken what John meant.

“I was just curious,” he said, hoping John wouldn’t guess how much research he’d done. Stupid. Why was he always so stupid? Why did he still get things wrong?

He rifled the pages as he walked to the desk, bending his head like he was studying the piles on top. He’d just start a new experiment, something that would allow him to ignore John until he could calm himself. 

“Sherlock,” John said, next to him, and he almost jumped.

He didn’t raise his head.

“Hey, sweetling. Come here.” John clasped his arm.

Sherlock allowed himself to be led to the couch. He didn’t want to hear the explanations, he didn’t want to have to make excuses. But it was probably best to get it over with. 

John tugged him down to sit next to him. He leaned into Sherlock and put his arms around him.

“You are so remarkable,” he said, smiling.

“But?” he dared ask. His heart thudded dully in his chest, and he fought against pulling out of John’s arms. He didn’t want to hear that he’d misunderstood.

“But,” John said. “If we do this thing we’re going to do it proper.”

Sherlock frowned at him, confused and disoriented.

“We’ll get married first. I’ll have no accusations of impropriety. No potential scandal about the timing of the wedding.”

His eyes sparkled, even though he was serious, and Sherlock felt relief wash through him. He chuckled (John was ridiculous, and at his very best when he accepted that) and leaned forward to rest his head on John’s shoulders.

“Neither of us would carry this child,” Sherlock said, fighting a grin.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m old fashioned.” 

“And if we decide not to?”

“I would marry you anyway,” John said. “Hypothetical child or no.” He ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, then added. “Only if you want to get married, that is. Living in sin may be more your thing, yeah? Your way of rebelling against society and expectations?”

“It would probably piss more people off to officially marry another man,” Sherlock agreed.

“Ah,” said John. “So you’d do It just to irritate zealots. Good to know.”

He knew John was teasing, could hear the smirk in his voice, but he had to say that wasn’t the reason, not really. There’d been so many small hurts between them that a few words would have prevented, and he could not bear for John to think, even momentarily, that that was the main reason he’d marry him. “No. I would do it because I want to marry you. Pissing off idiots would be a bonus.”

John pulled him tighter. “So. Proper wedding then? Suits? Rings? Announcement in the _Times_?”

“And the _Evening Standard_ ,” Sherlock added.

“Can’t forget that.”

“Can I pick the suits?”

“Yes. Can’t get married unless you do.”

He turned his head and glanced at John, who gifted him with a wicked smile. “How else do we do it proper?”

“Well. We really need to start with a gloriously romantic proposal,” John said.

“Doesn’t this count? There’s a fire.”

“And this is why we’re leaving that to me,” he said, chuckling. “No. What would we tell our future children? That you were ranting about abysmal research data sets in gynecology and I pulled you into my lap and told you I would marry you?”

“Mmm.” Sherlock said. “When you put it like that, it sounds like you’d propose to any bloke that came along ranting about bad data sets.”

“That it does. We can’t have that,” John said. “I only want to propose to one particular bloke who does rant quite frequently about data. And who is also is unfairly handsome and incredibly brilliant.”

“So you’ll propose.”

“Yes. I will.” He laced their fingers together. “I always had it in my head that if I got married I’d be the one to do that. And Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I do want to marry you, no matter what. So if you get further into this and decide that having a kid is not something you want to do, that’s fine. I won’t feel that you tricked me or led me on or whatever.”

“But if I do decide I want that?” he asked.

John smiled. “I stand by what I said. It would be an incredible adventure. We’re probably both insane for contemplating it. But I think you’d made a fantastic parent. We’d do alright.”

“Really? Most people wouldn’t trust me with their cat.”

“Most people don’t know you. Not like I do.”

“Anything else proper?”

“Honeymoon,” John said. “But I’m not doing a bridal carry. I’d probably drop you.”

“No bridal carries,” Sherlock agreed. 

“I probably ought to officially meet your parents, since I’m going to make an honest man out of you. But I’m not going to ask for permission.”

“Why would you ever need to do that?”

“Tradition.”

“We’re really not very traditional,” he said.

“I suppose not,” John said.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, watching the not-romantic-enough fire. He knew John was giving him time to process. 

He tucked himself as tightly as he could into John, and dared, finally, to confess the deepest secret of his heart. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He felt John turn towards him, his lips pause and press just below his ear. “I hope we live a ridiculously long time.”

***

John smiled sleepily into the pillow. His almost-fiancée (was betrothed better? maybe) had arisen a while ago, after giving him a soft kiss on his shoulder and readjusting the blankets.

He did that every morning if he left before John woke up, and John found it alarmingly adorable.

This engagement thing, this child thing (and what was his life, that he was seriously anticipating both, with _Sherlock_?) would likely be an ongoing discussion. 

Of course Sherlock was researching childbirth: that was what he did. That had not surprised John. His reaction, like he’d done something wrong, had. He’d seen the panic set in, as if trying to deny how much the idea had captivated him. Still so insecure. Only time could ease that; time and John proving over and over that Sherlock was safe to reveal himself, his desires, his secrets.

And what were they now? Pre-engaged? Promised. That was it. They were promised to each other. He knew he’d shocked Sherlock the other day — hell, he’d shocked himself — when he said he’d marry him. They hadn’t discussed it since. They’d had a day of running, and had fallen into their usual habits. He knew Sherlock needed some time to process.

But seeing him doubt had forced his hand. He’d planned to let Sherlock rearrange his Mind Palace (or whatever he did when he was processing), do his research, wrap his mind around it.

He couldn’t let Sherlock think, for a moment, he’d been anything other than serious. It had been impossible to mistake Sherlock’s delight, nor the astonishment threaded through that.

So. He stretched. There was no reason to wait to propose, except now he had to make sure he came up with something that they both would think was gloriously romantic. That might take him a little while. He’d like to surprise Sherlock, but his life would probably be easier if he gave up on that right away.

But he should give Sherlock something tangible now, something to indicate that he’d intended every word he’d said, and planned to make good on that as soon as he could.

He would give Sherlock his dog tags.

On one hand they were merely a trinket, cheap metal stamped with his name. On the other, they were entirely unique. Sentiment made them priceless.

And perhaps how fitting — and how ironic — that he should gift Sherlock something that was pure sentiment.

He should have given them to Sherlock a long time ago.

For a while he laid there, arms crossed behind him, watching the sun make its way across the ceiling, trying to see if any regrets or new thoughts would occur to him. When none did, he got out of bed and made his way to the kitchen.

His genius was staring intently into his microscope, taking notes. John put the kettle on for tea, then started making breakfast.

He was almost finished when Sherlock looked up.

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock’s face was impassive, giving no clue as to the thoughts ticking through his head. Years ago this façade would have demoralized him: he’d have been certain Sherlock was somehow having him on. Now he recognized it as a strategic retreat, Sherlock withdrawing and restraining himself until he knew what was appropriate. He did it more often that people realized.

“Morning, beloved,” he replied, smiling.

“Beloved?” A little bit of confusion, as if he didn’t trust why John would call him that.

“It has a nice ring to it. Better than boyfriend. It’ll do until I can call you my fiancée. Or my husband.”

Sherlock was not quick enough to hide a grin, nor could he tame the blush that started to color his cheeks. “Johnnn.”

John switched off the skillet and moved it to the back burner. Sherlock made a swift grab for him, and tugged him close, letting his head rest on his stomach. 

He could practically feel Sherlock fighting against asking if he was serious, if he’d really meant it. So he let his genius hold him, and held him in turn.

Something was worrying him, something had occurred to him. John could feel the shaking as he bounced his leg.

It wasn’t just disbelief. He was certain he’d still be rejected. 

“I’ve never had a life I wanted to… keep, before.” Sherlock said. John thought of the brash young man he’d met, racing headlong into danger with delight. He nodded. _A life worth keeping. Worth preserving_. John could hear that all too clearly. 

“And so I barely thought of the next week, much less the next year. Kids were never a possibility. A consideration.”

Sherlock paused, and glanced quickly toward him. Not sure about how he’d take this next bit, then.

“I wasn’t thinking about having kids when I asked you. But then you said you’d have a child with me without hesitation. No doubt whatsoever.”

“I would do anything with you,” John said, a reminder as well as a promise.

Sherlock drew a deep breath. “I’m not certain what the appeal is. Is it just that it’s possible? Now that I have a life that is worth keeping, is it something I want? I like the idea, but why? Is it that you would do such a monumental thing with me?

“Or is it just that it’s a guarantee? A child is a commitment. I worry all the time that I’ll be too much and drive you away. But I know you’d never abandon a child. Is it part of the appeal that it would keep you in my life? No matter what?”

“Oh, love,” John said. He couldn’t imagine what it had cost Sherlock to reveal that, how difficult it had been.

Sherlock made to pull back, as if with that confession John would change his mind, rescind everything he’d said yesterday. John held him, bent down and placed his lips on his forehead.

“I love you,” he said. “I want to marry you.”

“Yes,” he agreed. He sagged into John and started speaking without looking up. “If we announce our wedding in the _Times_ —

“—and the _Standard_ —”

“—someone will notice. They’ll probably want to interview us and write a story.”

Oh. John could read Sherlock’s concerns, his worries. His fear that John wouldn’t want anyone else to know.

“Well.” John ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, pulling him closer. “I think we should agree not to talk about potential children.”

Sherlock looked up, worry still evident on his face even though a small grin was forming on his mouth.

John caressed his face. “The press would find out eventually. And it does make a good story. Idiot blogger to marry redeemed detective. It has love and hopelessness and redemption and ends with a wedding.”

“And an happily ever after?” Sherlock asked.

“For a certainty,” John said, smiling.

“They will ask, John,” Sherlock said. “I’ve never cared, but are you sure you’re ready?”

Oh, how could Sherlock make him ache? He was studying John, his mercurial eyes the dark blue-grey of a winter sea. 

“I don’t know that I’m ready,” John said. “But I’m willing. And at least this way it will be on our terms. Otherwise we’ll work a high-profile case and someone at NSY will say something, or one of the reporters will notice and we’ll get hounded at the worst possible moment.”

“Which could still happen,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yeah,” John admitted. “I also think it’s not a thing you’re ever ready for. You just prepare as best you can, but you won’t know what you’re getting into until you’re engaged.”

“Wedding on the brain?” Sherlock grinned. “Or military strategy?”

“Which of us made the pun?” John asked. “Anyhow, I think I’d welcome the chance.”

“Why’s that?”

“For once in my like, people will be jealous of me.”

An eyebrow quirked.

“Marrying someone as incredible as you are.”

Sherlock gave him a reproving look that was undermined by his smile.

“But — and this sounds so trite, you’re going to laugh at me.”

Sherlock waited.

“I keep thinking what it would have meant to me as a teenager to see someone so… boring.” He laid a finger across Sherlock’s lips to stop his protest. “And while some things have changed tremendously, in some ways they haven’t changed all that much. I’m a basic regular bloke. No one’s going to toss me on a best dressed list or write an article about how I decorate the flat. People only recognize me if I’m with you. You’re so remarkable. I could be someone’s uncle or a teacher at their school.”

“So someone anyone could be.”

“Yeah. I thought David Bowie was amazing, but he was nothing like me.”

“Not many people identify as bi,” Sherlock said.

“Believe me, I know.”

“There talks are exhausting.”

“Very exhausting,” John agreed, smiling.

“Will there be many more?”

“Hopefully not in the next few days.”

Sherlock groaned, and John laughed.

“I think my breakfast is cold.”

“Fine. Go eat.” He shooed John toward the kitchen. “Abandon me if you must.”

John had long ago leaned that the trick to getting Sherlock to eat breakfast was not to ask him, or give him a plate, or even provide him a fork. No. It was to be going through the paper so he had a chance to steal food.

“I like the way yours tastes better,” Sherlock had told him. That made no sense to John (he cooked them the same thing, and served them the same way, and would have used the same plates if he’d had them), but he didn’t try to get clarification. Sherlock couldn’t properly explain, and he wasn’t certain he wanted to understand.

After Sherlock had eaten his share of breakfast he meandered off to the bathroom. John waited until he heard the pipes clang from Sherlock turning the shower on before he ran up the stairs to his old room to retrieve the tags. There was no sense it trying to be stealthy: that was likely to make Sherlock even more suspicious. Instead he also grabbed one of his old medical books, as he wanted to brush up on obstetrics. He’d only covered a couple of hours devoted to it in medical school because it wasn’t his specialty.

Now he was curious. He’d never be able to keep up with Sherlock’s level of research, but he refused to be left in the dust. The tags he slipped into his pocket. Sherlock would probably notice them, damn the observant bastard, but that couldn’t be helped.

Luck was with John: and either Sherlock was distracted enough not to notice or not to say anything.

His impulse seemed an even better idea now, after their discussion, and he was happy he’d thought of it. He settled in for an afternoon of adulting while Sherlock continued his research. Well. Adulting and trying to plan something that Sherlock would think was gloriously romantic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ending it here. I wanted to go further, but I'm also mostly on track (finally!) with the prompts, and this chapter was a beast. An unexpected beast that came out of nowhere, and these three related chapters are something I will likely mine later (I short-changed Argument; I'd barely got down what I posted when Trinket wandered in and demanded my total attention). 
> 
> I do remember reading about the maternal data set (a lot of what we know about pregnancy comes from very limited data). I'm not sure I got the details quite right, and I couldn't quickly find the source. I also remember reading about the utter lack of OB/GYN training your typical doctor gets, at least in the United States. It may have been in a review for Invisible Women: Data Bias in a World Designed for Men by Caroline Criado Perez, a book I've been wanting to read for a while. It may have been in some article about maternal mortality in the United States, or some combination thereof.


	17. Delusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets Harry for lunch to discuss a concern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a Sudden Realization that not only have I failed to write John giving Sherlock his tags, I’ve set myself up to write a Gloriously Romantic Proposal. So, if you have any ideas, please comment and let me know. (John says no morgue, but that he wouldn’t mind doing something with a touch of tradition. And maybe roses.)

“Ms. Watson. Always a pleasure.” That was too formal. Awkward. Especially as he’d texted her not two hours before to see if she could meet. He almost turned around and walked back out the door.

But Harry smiled, her eyes crinkling. “So, Mr. Holmes, what’s he done now?”

He pulled the tags out, settled them in his palm to show them off.

She grinned. “He gave you his tags?”

“Yes. As a promise.” He couldn’t have stopped his pleased smile.

Harry grinned back. “So. Can I expect a happy announcement soon?”

He tucked the tags back into his shirt, the light weight already a comfort against his skin. “I hope so.”

“That didn’t sound enthusiastic.” She narrowed her eyes.

He nodded. “I find myself in need of your advice.”

“I’d gathered that,” Harry said. “I didn’t think you were sitting around your flat, got bored, and decided that hanging out with me would lift your doldrums.”

“It’s not what I would usually do,” he admitted.

“Morgue?”

He nodded. 

“Don’t think it’s escaped me that John’s at the clinic and this is after his regular lunch hour.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said.

A bored waitress shuffled over and gave them menus.

After their drinks were delivered Harry leaned across the table. “So. Lunch.”

He aligned the silverware, not quite certain how to start. He needed to talk to John, but he wanted a forecast of what the result might be; whether he could have the comfort that things would be all right or the chance to fortify himself for disaster

“I’m assuming the tags have raised some concerns.”

He took a deep breath and blurted it out. “I don’t think I want to consult anymore, and I’m not sure what John will think.”

“And now I understand.”

“Exactly. I’m the world’s only consulting detective. Who am I if I’m not that anymore?”

“Do you need to quit it altogether?”

He looked up at her.

“Look. We’re both addicts. We’ve been taught that if we shouldn’t do something we need to stop it completely. So. Are you addicted to being a detective?”

He opened his mouth to answer, and found nothing. Harry let him sit there, thinking, while she picked at the bread they’d served.

“I like solving mysteries.”

She nodded. “So why stop?”

“Injuries. I’m not as capable.”

“You had head injuries?”

“No.”

“So your body is damaged,” she said. “But you can still use your head.”

“Theoretically,” he said. His ability to think seemed to have deteriorated lately.

“So why not keep using your head and not your body?” she asked.

“Because that's what we do. It's why John likes me,” he said. 

She huffed. "Yes. Certainly the only reason. And you're always working."

"Well, no."

"So what's happened in the times when you haven’t worked?”

He shrugged. “We hang around. John yells at me for making messes and not cleaning and shooting holes in the wall.”

Her lips twitched, but she managed not to laugh.

“He goes to work. Or on walks. I do experiments. He reads horrible mysteries that he wouldn’t have to because I could tell him how they turn out if he let me. We watch the telly and he cooks and washes dishes. But that was before…” he plucked the chain.

“So now you feel that you’re obligated to keep running around.”

“Yes. Well. What do I have to offer him if I can’t offer him excitement anymore?”

“But before, he never moved out or said that he wanted to do something different or…?”

Sherlock shook his head.

Her grin widened. “So. The man gives you his dog tags, and you’re worried that your only value to him is entertainment?”

Put that way it sounded ridiculous, but he nodded.

She didn’t call him any names, or say anything about him being stupid or not using his head. Instead, she clasped his hand between her own.

“He adores you,” she said. “I won’t say there’s not a breaking point, that nothing you could do would change how he feels, but this isn’t it.”

His relief was tempered. He could still do something to drive John away. “What is?”

She regarded him for a moment, apparently deciding how much she could convey without betraying John and weighing that against his desperation. “People will tell you that if he forgave you for letting him think you were dead, then he’ll forgive you for anything.”

He nodded. He’d heard that from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.

She shook her head. “They’re wrong.”

“I—"

Harry cut him off. “I don’t know all the details, but I know part of it was because you were trying to protect him, and you shut him out, didn’t tell him.”

He nodded.

“Don’t do that again. I know you mean well, but. It would kill him if you did anything like it again.” She flushed, as if she’d said a little too much, and released his hand.

“It would kill him,” she said again. “So if he felt that you were shutting him out, he’d pull away. Doesn’t matter why you were doing it.”

“Oh.”

She looked up, grave. “He wouldn’t come back. And that is how you’d lose him, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’ll make sure I don’t.”

Harry nodded once, as if they’d reached a deal. “Good.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“And let him know we had lunch today,” Harry said.

He quirked an eyebrow.

“You don’t need to tell him everything, but don’t have secrets unless you need to. Don’t cut him out unless you tell him why.”

He nodded.

“You don’t need to tell him what we talked about, or not everything. But.” She gripped the stem of her glass. “It doesn’t take much to start keeping secrets. Until everything becomes a secret, and you don’t talk anymore.”

“What if I don’t want to tell him something?”

“Well. You could say that you need to think more about it. Or you’re not comfortable talking about it and need time. Or that you will tell him someday, you’re just not ready yet. But only tell him that if you intend to tell him at some point.”

She actually answered questions. This was fantastic. Didn’t act like he should know something, didn’t demand he give her reasons. It was such a relief.

“Mostly he’s afraid of losing you again.”

“He won’t.”

“Sherlock. People can be lost without going anywhere. Don’t forget John has his own interests,” Harry said. “He loves being a doctor. Loves medicine. He was that sweet kid that would stick plasters on everything, whether on not that’d help.”

Sherlock found an eager blond boy easy to conjure, deadly earnest in his desire to help.

“He’s always loved reading. He likes writing, too, but it wasn’t respectable enough.”

“He doesn’t really want to be respectable, he just thinks he does.”

“Well, that’s John in a nutshell. Trying to be what everyone else wants of him.” She smiled. “Just appreciate who he is.”

"I do." he said.

"So we've solved this, right? You don’t have to go cold turkey. Just change your focus, alter what you do. Maybe quit doing some of it.”

“No more stakeouts,” he said. His reflexes weren’t what they were, and he was terrified of the day he’d react too slowly and John would get injured.

She nodded. “Up to you, but that’s probably a good place to start.”

“They get boring,” he said, and she chuckled. “And anymore…”

“Not the easiest thing to stay in one place, especially if it’s cold?”

He nodded.

She took a sip of water and leaned across the table. “Now. Tell me all about my favorite brother giving you his dog tags, you delusional cockwaffle.”

He laughed, as she’d surely intended. “That’s not the worst thing I’ve ever been called.”

“I should think not,” she said. “Now. Waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came to me all jumbled - I think it took longer to put it in some kind of order than it did to write, and I'm not quite satisfied with the flow.  
> It also seems to want to join the preceding chapters as a connected story, which I was not planning on doing (but i think we've fairly established by now I'm not really sure what's going on).  
> Hope you enjoyed, and please leave thoughts on what the Gloriously Romantic Proposal should be. Other that agreeing on no morgue, John and I are both stuck.


	18. Property

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When dragon shapeshifter Sherlock all but claims magecrafter John as his, he never expects what happens next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was hoping to write a bit of dragon!lock this month, and this prompt seems like the perfect fit.   
> This wants to be a longer story. Maybe someday it will be, but for now please enjoy a wee smidge of Sherlock as a shapeshifting dragon and John as an extremely competent (and extremely underestimated) magecrafter.   
> Sorry for the late posting: it took a while to meld this into something coherent. I cut half of what I’d written, and rearranged the rest. Whew. Sometimes this writing thing is work.

A corrugated roof set with transparent panels let dim light seep in. No details could be made of the space they were in, although the height and the location of the panels suggested a large, tall room. 

They’d been here long enough John’s eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, enabling him to make out the man besides him.

Sherlock’s head rested against the concrete wall. Only the rapid movement of his eyes revealed he was in his Mind Palace. Cataloging. Searching.

His hold on his transport was slipping, a sign of sheer exhaustion: moonstone eyes reflected silver even in this faint light, and John knew the inky shadows emerging on the back of his hands, the bend of his joints, and his cheekbones were scales. His hair moved in a nonexistent breeze, the sign of an impending shift to plates and horns. 

He had paced around John, possessive, and although he had never changed John had sensed the sinewy body of his other form circling him, claiming him, protecting him. Had almost felt it, and at times was sure he could see it. He might as well have said John belonged to him, that John was _his_ , it came across so clearly in his actions. While John might be an idiot, he certainly wasn’t stupid. He recognized the implications in those gestures.

Sherlock hadn’t been able help it, but he was upset now: this staking a claim, identifying John as his property, had only given their captors another way to control him. And it had revealed that he had feelings for John. Feelings that John clearly wasn’t meant to know about.

Feelings that terrified him.

Feelings he was sure John didn’t reciprocate, if the tense way he held himself as if expecting a blow was any indication; waiting for John to reject him, to tell him that he hadn’t known what his own actions meant. That they’d been unintentional. That he would _never_.

He scooted closer to Sherlock. Like all dragons he had a faint storm-smell: ozone and ash, scorched earth desperate for oncoming rain. John responded to it as a clean smell, a purification spell. Others regarded it as evidence of their innate destructive traits.

No response. John closed his eyes for a moment, appreciating the warmth radiating from his body. And then he opened his eyes and took his hand, interlacing their fingers. Waited.

Sherlock slowly sat up, and his fingers flexed, reaffirming their grip. “You’re touching me.”

Other people would have said that to get him to stop touching them. He’d come to realize that such things with Sherlock weren’t requests, but statements that could be taken at face value.

“Obviously,” John huffed next to him.

“As I am,” Sherlock said. He raised their joined hands enough that John could see the shadows of the scales that were smooth underneath his hand. “You’re not afraid.”

“No.” John leaned against him.

“You should be.”

“And why’s that?”

“I would have you be mine,” he said.

“You claimed me in front of others today.”

“It was a Bit Not Good,” Sherlock admitted. He didn’t look at John.

“Oh Sherlock,” he said. “I am yours, to do with as you will.”

Sherlock’s breath caught, and then he drew in a great gasp of air.

“You started a bond with me today, John,” he said. “When you placed your hand on my leg.”

“I know, you giant poncy lizard. I meant to.” 

Sherlock remained still besides him, although his grip tightened. “Oh.”

“Should we complete the bond?” John murmured. “Would that help?”

“It might,” Sherlock conceded. “But it’s a ritual.”

“I know that. Who’s the magecrafter here?”

Sherlock grumbled. It was a sore spot that magecrafting remained forever out of his reach due to his very nature, but he was adroit at understanding the structures and suggesting improvements.

“Maybe there’s something here we could use,” John said.

“Unlikely.”

“Would you like a light?” John asked. He had no big power left; those resources had been drained. But. Some things were now almost instinctual, and practice had made them as easy, as efficient, as breathing.

“That and a side of mutton,” Sherlock muttered.

“Can’t do much about that.” John opened his free hand, revealing a small ball of light, the most basic kind. He sometimes dreamt of them and woke up to a room full of orbs that glowed firefly-soft.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, and leaned against him.

John pulled back. Sherlock’s slight smile was visible in the glow. He shifted so his arm was around Sherlock’s waist, and Sherlock snug against him.

“Let’s see what we can,” he said, letting the light drift away to meander around the room like the firefly it resembled. The way the darkness enveloped the small light revealed that they were in a vast space.

What else shared this space with them?

“Can you make more?”

John closed and opened his left palm. A swarm of lights spiraled up, and for a brief moment, caught under their concentrated light, it seemed like he and Sherlock could be outside on a summer night.

“My dear Watson, you are a marvel.”

He turned his head, and Sherlock’s grin inspired his own. It was instinct, it was only right, to tilt his head and kiss him, a light brush of lips.

As easy as if they’d always done it.

Sherlock’s arm pulled him closer, and his head fell to John’s shoulder.

The lights drifted off together, bright enough to illuminate the surroundings. There was racking throughout the space, with pallets and cardboard slip sheets and plastic sheeting, detritus of leaves and papers underneath. Concrete floor and concrete walls. A podium at the rear of the space to serve as a work station.

“Abandoned warehouse,” Sherlock said. “Car products,” after a sniff.

Roll-up doors connected their space to the rest of the warehouse, and the space in front of them might be big enough for Sherlock. There was more here to work with than their captors perhaps realized.

“If something happened, and I changed,” he said thoughtfully, “I might have enough room. But that racking could be an issue.”

The lights slowly drifted back to them.

Sherlock held out a hand, and some of the lights landed and faded into his palm.

“Oh,” he gasped, his voice full of wonder. He twisted his hand around several times, as if looking at them (could he see them?) and then sat his hand back down.

The rest of the lights floated around their heads, their own private stars.

“I can build a circle,” John said.

Sherlock released his hand, and John took that as acceptance. He stood up and started towards the workstation, most of the lights traveling with him. A few remained with Sherlock, and when he looked back his eyes glowed with their light.

No way to mistake how remarkable he was. What he was.

The thing about being a merely competent and mostly self-taught magecrafter was that you weren’t given the fanciest tools. You learned to make do with what you had, to scrounge and substitute and simplify. Technically the ritual they were about to perform should take days to prepare, the structures drafted out in chalk laid under the new moon after the spring solstice.

Technically.

All he needed was something to sketch a circle, and that was more for Sherlock’s benefit, although he had no doubt his genius would be able to envision it. Still. Part of him hated simplifying such an intricate, beautiful ritual because Sherlock deserved something beautiful.

The work station was covered with papers, which he did his best to check through to ensure there were no binding spells. They appeared to be bills of lading or receipts, and nothing tingled to suggest active magic. He kept looking and found an old pen stuck in the cracks between the flat surface and the sides. It didn’t write, but that didn’t matter. Things liked to be used for their intended purpose, and it wouldn’t take much to persuade the pen to lay down a nice thick line of chalk. He claimed the rubber bands and the paperclips as well, then made his way to the front of the roll-up door.

This was sealed with magic as well as strong sliding lock. It also had a compulsion laid on it to slam down. Someone had given it a taste for blood, and they needed to avoid passing underneath it. Well. It had been a thought.

He turned to the space in front of the door. Sherlock might change during this spell, and he might not. Best to set this in the largest clear space they had.

John called more lights up and started sketching the circle. 

Sherlock came over to join him, his luminescent eyes moving as if they saw the invisible structures John was crafting, indicated with a few simple lines of chalk.

At the last moment John extended his hand, and Sherlock took it and allowed himself to be led into the center. 

John left him to complete the circle. When he turned Sherlock was watching, and held out both hands. Even he knew better than to comment on a construct, although the smile he gave John indicated he was pleased.

A deep silence fell, as if they were muffled in snow, when John grasped his hands, and the warehouse seemed to fade entirely away, although his lights seemed to glow even brighter.

John stood, recognizing the moment, honoring it, feeling the construct settle around them. He grinned at Sherlock, lacing the fingers on their hands together, feeling the long claws bite into the back of his hands.

Sherlock turned eyes filled with wonder to him.

“I grant you the blood in my veins, the fire in my loins, the air that I breath.”

Sherlock’s hands shook and he leaned forward and kissed him.

“I grant you the void between the stars; the waters of the first world, and the rock of the last,” Sherlock murmured, his face inches from Johns’ own.

These were not ritual responses, but the words left his mouth as if they were rote, could be no other way, had been spoken by thousands of people over thousands of years.

John kissed him and stepped back.

“And what of your heart, magecrafter?”

“It is yours, dragon. It is already yours.”

Sherlock kissed the top of his head and John felt as if he were being knighted. “You are mine, John Watson.” He took a deep breath. “And I am yours.”

This time John put his hands up, cupped his face, brought Sherlock forward to meet his mouth.

They breathed each other’s air. Around them the magic flowed like a murmuration of swallows, like the currents in an ocean A settling was taking place, something was done, had been created and could not be unmade.


	19. Greece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock discuss honeymoon locations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look! Another 221B!

“I’m looking forward to being ridiculous with you.”

“You’re always ridiculous with me,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Git.” John hurled the small Union Jack pillow at him.

Sherlock, by now, was used to avoiding it. “Why are we being ridiculous?”

“Our honeymoon. Probably the one time in our lives we can get away with being utterly soppy in public.”

“Why would we want to do such a thing?” he asked.

John glared at him. “Sometimes I question why I want to be soppy with you anywhere.” He sighed. “I think the better question might be where. We could go to Spain? But Greece looks quite lovely—”

“—and would, for obvious reasons, be more appropriate.”

John ignored him. “Portugal? Romania? Norway?”

“See? You’re ridiculous.”

“Only because you make me so.”

Sherlock threw the pillow back at him. “Nowhere cold.”

“Thank you. Although I’d love to see the Northern Lights with you someday.”

He could easily imagine standing under a dark cold sky, hand-in-hand with John. “You are a romantic.”

“Opposites attract,” John said. No protests anymore. Yet another thing he was no longer in denial about.

Sherlock smirked. “Up to you.”

“Surely you have some thoughts? Places you’d like to see? Things to do?”

“Oh yes.” He turned his most lascivious grin to John. “I’m planning on keeping you in bed.”


	20. Heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry gleefully throws John under the bus and runs out the door, and John learns something about himself he never suspected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Sherlock affectionately tease each other about being queer. John is still getting used to being out and isn’t quite ready for some of this.

“You’ve never seen _Rocky Horror_? How do you call yourself gay?” Harry exclaimed loudly enough that he was sure Mrs. Hudson had heard her.

“I don’t,” Sherlock said.

Harry shot him a look.

“I will admit that I missed many sociological milestones that are associated with homosexuality by the nature of my upbringing and my general disdain for people and attempting to endear myself to others.”

“We’re going to remedy this,” Harry said.

Sherlock made a face.

“I remember watching it just because I knew it would give the folks kittens,” John added. He wanted to see Sherlock’s reaction to the complete insanity that was _Rocky Horror_.

“That wasn’t the only reason you watched it,” Harry grinned.

Sherlock turned to deduce him, but apparently that facility was not functioning well enough for him to figure it out. “What were the other reasons?”

“Just one other reason.” Harry’s eyes were sparkling, and John felt a sudden sense of dread. He thought about protesting, but now Sherlock had this clue he wouldn’t rest until it was revealed.

“Oh? Do tell.” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and gave her his best doe-eyed look.

The smug grin meant that Harry was ignoring his _shut-up-now-please_ looks. He fought against the urge to slide down in the chair, knowing what was coming.

“Tim Curry in a corset.” Harry grinned.

He sighed, resigned. “And heels.”

“Not what I would have deduced,” Sherlock admitted, his face lighting up.

Gods. He was never going to hear the end of this. “Oh?”

“I was expecting something with buxom women, although one would think that would serve to comfort others about your assumed heterosexuality, and thus relieve your parents of any misgivings. Although perhaps age could be a factor.”

“There were buxom women,” John said.

“Oh, there were many factors,” Harry said. “Age wasn’t one of them.”

“It’s pretty kinky, actually,” John said. “I can’t imagine it being made today.”

Sherlock stole a prawn off his plate, and John ineffectually slapped at him. Crisis averted, although Sherlock’s delight in discovering such a thing might be an issue. He leaned over and snagged a chip.

Then Harry squinted at Sherlock and sat up. “John. I just realized. You definitely have a type.”

“I will kill you.”

Harry just grinned.

“A type.” John recognized Sherlock’s fishing-for-details tone, but declined to help him.

Harry nodded. “A very specific type.”

“They will never find your body.” John said. He could feel the burning in his cheeks. “Never.”

“We are watching that now.”

“It’s a musical.”

Sherlock frowned.

John played his ace. “A musical comedy horror film.”

Sherlock just continued staring at him, the stare that meant “And your point is what?”

“From the 1970s.”

“Nevertheless. I want to see what this type is. And what else I can deduce about you.”

His eyes glinted, and John knew he wouldn’t be put off.

“You will pay for this,” he told Harry.

She shrugged. “He’d have figured it out eventually.”

They finished up dinner. John cleared off the table but didn’t bother with cleaning. That could wait. He wasn’t sure he wanted to leave them together without supervision. If Harry revealed anything else he could at least be forewarned even if he couldn’t prevent it.

“I downloaded it,” Sherlock said when John entered the living room.

“Of course you did.” He settled on the sofa next to Sherlock and waited for the confusion and protests to begin. At least that would give him something to concentrate on. 

“Why lips?”

“Probably the cheapest effect.” He paused. “Nothing about this movie really makes sense.”

And then he and Harry managed to callback “Castles don’t have phones, asshole!” in unison, which made Sherlock sit up and pause the movie.

“You were both prepared with that specific response. Why?”

John didn’t even know how to begin to explain that to him.

Harry did. “There’s a cult following, and people will dress up to view this movie and participate by throwing things or yelling at the screen.”

“And to know the proper responses you would have to be indoctrinated,” Sherlock said. “So calling it a cult is somewhat correct.”

He blinked at both of them, doubtless adding that to the Watson information squirreled away in his Mind Palace, and then turned the movie on again.

And damn it, Harry wasn’t wrong about him having a type. It was all too easy to picture Sherlock in some of the costumes. All he’d really need was a little lipstick and eyeliner and…

 _Oh_. Apparently that was a kink John hadn’t been aware of until this very awkward moment. He couldn’t look at Sherlock, nor could he look anywhere but the screen or his all-too-observant boyfriend would notice.

 _Boyfriend._ A part of him marveled. _He was watching this with his_ boyfriend _._

He grinned. Yeah, he’d probably be teased about this, but the thought of watching it on his couch with his boyfriend was pleasing in a way he couldn’t describe. He’d never thought to have this, and even if Sherlock was going to mock his teenage self later (and not without some cause, although he still liked Dr. Frank-N-Furter) and probably (accidentally) mention it in front of NSY or at least poor Greg, he could revel in this moment.

He settled on thinking about the color composition, not because much thought had been given to that but because thinking of anything else would be exceptionally awkward. 

Sherlock kept going “What? Why?” and every time John thought he adored him just a little bit more. And then tried desperately not to picture those pouting lips shining with dark red lipstick.

There was absolute silence when the movie ended, and when John turned on the lamp Sherlock looked shell-shocked.

“That was…” he started blinking his eyes. 

“I think you had to be born in certain times to really appreciate it.” Harry said.

“Going to a screening makes it an entirely different experience,” John said.

“Those must have been confusing experiences for you,” Sherlock said.

“How so?”

“If people were costumed as Dr.?” He waved his hand, probably unwilling to say the ridiculous name.

“I wouldn’t say confusing,” John said.

“Did you dress up?”

“Not usually.”

“But when you did?”

“In uni I went as Rocky.”

Sherlock’s pupils went dark as he clearly pictured John in the gold pants and nothing else. John couldn’t last in front of that look.

“Tea?” John asked, and fled to the kitchen before anyone could reply.

Sherlock followed him into the kitchen a moment later and leaned against the counter. “She’s right. You do have a type.”

“Hadn’t thought about it,” John muttered, clutching a mug.

“I had assumed we’d find out more about my proclivities.” He gave John a slow, lazy smile. “Clearly we should have planned to discover more about yours as well.”

“Clearly.”

Sherlock took a step closer, murmured, “Should I get a corset?”

John looked at him and his mouth dried and his mind blanked. He couldn’t move. “I…” Swallowed.

Sherlock leaned in, his lips brushing his ear. “I take it that’s a yes.”

John managed a small nod.

He grinned and sashayed out of the kitchen. Paused. “And garters, I think.”

John finally managed to draw a breath. Fuck. He’d never get that image out of his mind. Not that he wanted to. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

How had it taken him this long to discover he had a kink? A strong kink? He was in his forties, he should know that men in corsets were apparently a thing for him. Quite a thing.

Well, maybe not all men. But Sherlock, definitely. 

And now the daft bastard knew it.

“Oh look,” Harry said. “I just recalled that I have someplace I desperately need to be that is not here.”

Sherlock apparently hadn’t been able to tame the smirk on his face.

Was it possible to die of both lust and mortification?

“Indeed you do,” Sherlock said. “Let me walk you to the door.”

“I’ll see myself out, ta. Bye John! I know you’re busy in there with the, um, dishes!” The door opened.

Dishes. Right. Yeah. He tipped up a plate and let it fall back on the counter, where it clunked and would in no way convince anyone he was up to his arms in suds. He didn’t bother trying to find words. ~~~~

“Later!” Harry called, and started to shut the door. Before it closed completely she stuck her head back in. “I don’t want to hear from you for two days.”

“Best make it three,” Sherlock said.

The door clicked shut, but he could still hear chuckling all the way down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have been inspired by Another Well Kept Secret and the drawing of Sherlock dressed as Dr. Frank-N-Furter and John as Rocky (the picture wasn’t the reason I wrote this, but it would be disingenuous to claim I wasn’t influenced by it). There’s a lot of adorable Johnlock and Ineffable Husbands artwork and comics on their website, some of which are NSFW. https://www.anotherwellkeptsecret.com.


	21. Sigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has been back at Baker Street for almost three months and has not even mentioned dating. Sherlock is starting to worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an AU where there is no Mary; it took John a few months to get over his anger and betrayal and move back in with Sherlock.

It was enough that John was back at Baker Street. It was. It would have to be.

He leaned back against the building to wait for John, purposely not watching through the window. He’d mimed a phone call and left John to chat up the woman in front of him, leaving him with a “you know what I like.” He couldn’t bring himself to stand there and listen to John charm someone else. He’d surely get her number and arrange some kind of date.

John had not gone on any dates, and it make Sherlock nervous. He’d been back at Baker Street for almost three months, and in all that time he’d never even hinted at it. It was disturbing, and just one more example of the myriad of infinitesimal changes that had happened in his time away.

The door swung open, and John stepped out, smiling when he saw Sherlock. He reached for the cup and took a cautious sip.

“This isn’t almond.”

“No.” John watched him.

“I like it. Tastes like they used real honey. And real lavender too.”

“I still don’t know what you have against artificial flavors,” John said, “since you think chemistry is the answer to everything.”

“Isn’t it?” He smiled, and then panicked. Was this flirting? This felt like it might be flirting. That was a Bit Not Good.

John grinned up at him, the fond grin that was in his top five favorites because of how his eyes crinkled, and took a sip of his own drink.

Well, since he wasn’t volunteering there was nothing for it: he’d have to ask. He bit back the sigh that so desperately wanted to precede the question. “So, no date?”

“Date with whom?”

“The woman ahead of us.” He took another sip of his drink, flummoxed. How could she refuse John? He was glad she had, of course, but now he’d reminded John of his failure…

“I didn’t ask.”

“No?” He glanced over at John, startled.

“No.” John looked up at him, thoughtful. “There’s only one person I want to date.”

How did he not know this? He should know this.

“I guess maybe you could argue that I am, since I just bought him coffee. And a scone.” He held up the bag and grinned at Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the street. John had just said he was dating him? That he wanted to date him?

John grabbed his forearm and tugged him into a shop doorway. He dropped his hand once he had them safely out of the way of the start of the early-morning crush and let Sherlock process.

“Doesn’t a coffee date involve staying a the café and asking each other inane questions?”

“Usually. It’d a good way to feel out if there’s a connection without too much drama. At least for a first date.”

“This would hardly be our first date, John.”

“I suppose not.” He smirked. “Our first date was full of drama.”

“And panic,” Sherlock said.

“On both our parts,” John said.

“Although purchasing food for another does not necessarily imply a date,” he said. “Usually there is an agreed-upon objective based on discovering mutual compatibility and some display of physical affection.”

John beamed up at him. “We’ve always been compatible,” he said, and extended his hand.

After a moment of staring at it Sherlock clasped it, intertwining their fingers. “You want to be physically affectionate?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’d like that too.”

They stood grinning like idiots at each other for a moment.

“Should we go home?” Sherlock asked. He really wanted to lean over and kiss John, but was afraid that once he started he wouldn’t stop. 

“Yes.” John smiled up at him, seemingly just as happy as he was, and squeezed his hand. 

The morning was glorious, the world bright, and he caught the faint whir of CCTV cameras as they walked by. 

“Just so we’re clear,” John said, as they stood waiting for the traffic to slow so they could cross the street, “I am planning to snog you when we get home.”

Sherlock said. “I was rather hoping you might.”

“Yes, well.” John took a small sip of his coffee. “I only haven’t because I don’t want Mycroft to watch. Or his cronies.” 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, knowing John would understand that he really meant _thank you_ and _I know this about you, of course you understand I don’t want my brother involved, but who would want their sibling to know?_ and _yes, I too want to wait for the privacy of our home_.

“Obviously,” agreed John with a smile. 


	22. Texture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is nervous. 
> 
> A small drabble.

There was nothing in his pocket except Sherlock’s ring, heavy with the weight of promises he anticipated giving. He kept spinning it, worrying the matte finish, an intriguing contrast against the beveled edges. The smoothness burned clear and cold and bright, should have seared a hole in his pocket, should have branded him. Should have glowed like the stars.

He tried not to feel for its comforting weight, but was aware that not doing that was probably as much a giveaway as touching it was.

“Stop fidgeting, John,” Sherlock said, eyes crinkling. “I am going to say yes, you know.”


	23. Verbal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John enjoys this aspect of seducing Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look! Another 221B!  
> It's been a week. And I've written a lot, but none of it really fit and I decided to do something small and fluffy.

Had anyone been more susceptible to words?

During their first night together it was natural to whisper _brilliant_ and _beautiful,_ rendering his articulate genius an incoherent mess.

That was a common occurrence when they made love, Sherlock’s massive vocabulary dwindling to a few gasped words wrung from his lips, John’s increased to a near constant murmur, certain words making Sherlock writhe beneath him.

 _Clever_ and _wicked_ worked very well, and could be used a number of ways, to great effect (oh, the things you do with that _wicked_ tongue of yours. Come, and use those _clever_ fingers…). The danger was over-use.

 _Gorgeous_ was out. (Sherlock would freeze and blink, as if he was trying to understand how that could possibly be applied to him.)

 _You impossible brilliant thing_ worked with a suggestive smile.

 _Exquisite creature_ was apparently acceptable, even if he wasn’t sure how or why he’d said it in the first place.

 _Splendid_ would raise roses on ivory skin.

 _Maddening_ was best deployed when they were high after a successful case, and John couldn’t look at Sherlock until they arrived at 221B, he wanted him so badly.

If he wanted Sherlock to melt, _love_ would suffice, but _sweetling_ and _darling_ worked as well. 

Of all things, he’d never expected that a thesaurus would be a necessary accoutrement for the bedroom.


	24. Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small argument about who should be the most nervous about their lovemaking skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea why, but as soon as I'd look away I'd think the prompt was "Gentle."

He’d been nervous, those first times, knowing his experience was limited.

“Why?” John asked, between kisses. “You’re not the one with a reputation. If anyone’s nervous about being a disappointment…” He trailed his hand lightly down Sherlock’s chest.

“It should be you, Three Continents?” Sherlock murmured. 

“Yes.” John did something with his tongue on his neck and oh fucking hell, how was he even supposed to think?

“It is quite a reputation to live up to.” Good. He hadn’t lost the ability to form sentences. Yet. He thought about protesting that John’s reputation was well-earned, but he didn’t have enough energy to devote to forming the words.

“Are you sure you want to throw that gauntlet?” John smirked at him, daring him. His hand found a way under Sherlock’s jammie bottoms and over his hip bone, where his thumb lightly stroked, mere inches from where his hand should be, and he never would have thought this teasing could be so exquisite. Never knew his skin could be so sensitive, so alive to a mere touch.

Sherlock wasn’t sure he could survive John deploying his full arsenal of moves. One day, perhaps, but not yet. 

John moved his hand further back and pressed against him, another delightful tease.

Sherlock thought he might well forget his own name before they reached the bedroom.


	25. Mystic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fanciful observation leads to revelations.

The grey light of an overcast day bled into the sitting room windows. It was damp enough that John had lit the fire; and Sherlock had looked over and given a quick, approving smile before going back to doing whatever it was he was doing. John hadn’t quite figured it out, yet. He was appreciating that Sherlock hadn’t yet claimed to be bored, although that was surely coming. He’d had no case for almost a week.

Instead Sherlock was flittering between the desk, the window, and the table. His dark blue dressing gown swirled around him, and he seemed entirely oblivious to John ( _seemed_ being the operative word: John knew he was perfectly well aware of him, and some of the dramatics just might be for his benefit).

He came to the end of the chapter and propped the book facedown on the end table. Sherlock had settled for the moment at their shared desk, and was busy scowling at both of their laptops. The glare from the screen threw interesting highlights on his face and his hair, making him more otherworldly than usual.

Maybe it was that, or because the ambient light of fire and drizzle that made it seem that their flat was in some other world, some other time; revealed as a magician’s lair with Sherlock as resident mage, but John had a sudden flight of fancy.

“I know you wanted to be a pirate, but was your alternate career plan wizard?”

Why had he ever said such a thing to Sherlock Holmes, of all people?

But Sherlock didn’t disparagingly inform him that ‘wizard is not a viable career path, honestly, John, those books are rotting your brain.’ Instead he looked over at John, intrigued. “Why do you say that?”

“The way you seem to know everything, to read minds. The dressing gowns that could be robes. The skulls. The esoteric books. The oddities scattered about the room… All very mystical, isn’t it? All you’re missing is a crystal ball.”

Sherlock glanced around the room, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose I could make room for one on the bookshelf.”

“Yes, because what we need are rumors of you consulting occult forces.”

“John, didn’t you just imply that I am an occult force?”

“You are very many things, Sherlock Holmes,” John said, and was promptly horrified by how flirtatious that had sounded. How warm. How _smitten_. But Sherlock would surely ignore that. 

No. Sherlock had heard something in his tone. His gaze locked on John, and his eyes glittered a deep silver. John didn’t let himself shrink from that gaze. Sherlock stood up, never breaking his gaze, and stalked towards him. He stopped in front of John’s chair.

“And what am I, John Watson?”

John’s mouth was dry, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest. “Magnificent,” he managed, which was not what one should say when trying to keep one’s impossible crush as much of a secret as possible.

An eyebrow quirked. Sherlock did not look away. “That still makes me sound like a wizard.”

John sat forward. “Incredible.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed; but he made no movement, as if John’s words had rendered him marble. 

If asked at that very moment John would have said that he believed in magic, because something was happening between the two of them, something untoward, something he never would have credited.

He stood up and took one step, close enough that Sherlock’s dressing gown rustled from his presence; close enough that Sherlock had to tilt his head down slightly to see him.

“Fascinating,” John whispered. “Impossible.” He reached out his hand to caress Sherlock’s cheek. “I could swear you’ve enchanted me, Holmes.”

A smile quivered across his lips, and his eyes fluttered but didn’t close. “Then what further need have I of magic?” Sherlock asked, and leaned down to kiss him.


	26. Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drunk John arrives home talking about burning ears. Sherlock is confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 221B! Because I had no idea what else to do with ears!  
> Setting: John has moved back in and they're still figuring things out.

“Were your ears burning?” John gave the happy-drunk smile.

“My ears are fine. They’ve been fine,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been home all evening. Thanks for your concern.” Why was John worried about his ears?

John turned his head to stare at Sherlock, not bothering to take it off the back of the sofa. Apparently a little too drunk to feel like sitting up, then. “No. Not injury.” Disconcertingly, the grin seemed to grow a bit wider.

“My ears usually don’t get injured,” Sherlock agreed, and John giggled.

He was clearly missing something, and felt disoriented, like he had been the one out drinking. John clearly thought he was making sense, and his words followed a rudimentary syntax. They just didn’t mean anything.

John’s grin died and he turned to contemplate the ceiling. “Not injury,” he huffed. “Means you know we talked about you.”

“How would I know that?”

This time, when John flopped his head over, he clearly meant to be glaring. Instead, his expression was sweetly befuddled. “You know everything.”

“No. Not everything,” Sherlock murmured. John didn’t seem to hear him, and even if he did he could deny it the next day.

“I always talk about you,” John rambled.

“What an annoying arse I am?”

“No,” John drawled. Another grin.

Suddenly Sherlock was desperate to know what he babbled.


	27. Fashion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk about John's parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. This is the prompt that brought me to a screeching halt. I could think of nothing. And then I thought, well, I'll do something with the dragon story and John having to fashion a spell... and that's turning into a thing, enough of a thing I want to devote serious attention to it rather than throw it up here in a rough state.   
> So we have this, instead.

“I’m glad I don’t have anything to do with my parents,” John said. He’d been oddly quiet since he’d returned home, putting the groceries away and greeting Sherlock with a kiss before going to sit in his chair and not read.

Sherlock knew there’d been no love lost, but that was unexpectedly blunt. Harsh. “Oh?”

“They’d blame Harry for this,” he said, waving his hand between the two of them. “It’d be her fault I’m queer. Her bad influence.”

“And not mine?” Sherlock purred. He rose from the couch and stalked towards John, who watched him with darkening eyes. “I assure you I can be a very bad influence indeed.”

He cornered John in his chair, and bit the nape of his neck, then sucked, drawing a startled gasp.

“You’re a terrible influence.” John gasped, pulling him onto his lap.

“I turned a perfectly straight army doctor gay,” Sherlock agreed, nibbling down his neck.

“I’ve never been perfectly straight,” John murmured, angling so Sherlock could better reach.

“I knew that,” Sherlock said. He started to suck another hickey behind John’s jaw. “What brought this on?”

John sighed, and Sherlock sat back.

“Something I overheard,” he said. His grip firmed around Sherlock’s hips. He raised his head and gazed at Sherlock. “They’d blame Harry, sure, but they’d also accuse me of getting into a relationship with you because it was the fashionable thing to do.”

“Fashionable?” He couldn’t stop his mouth from quirking up.

“Well, everyone’s talking about it, yeah? It’s the popular thing now. And I haven’t the common sense to know what I want and not go along with the crowd.”

Oh, there was so much behind that statement. Sherlock blinked and stored it away to ponder later. “John, you’ve never done anything fashionable in your life.”

John giggled. “Yes. I know.” He sagged forward and rested his head against Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock put an arm around him. What had John overheard? Likely something at the clinic, although maybe something while queued up at the grocery.

“They would have kittens. Can’t I see how Harry ruined her life? Why’d I have to copy her? I was supposed to be better than that.”

He pulled John to him, planted a kiss on the top of his head.

“It’s not that Harry hasn’t had problems,” John said. “But it took me a very long time to realize that they stemmed from how she was treated, not who she is. And that did make me afraid.”

Again so much John wasn’t saying.

He pulled back and ran a hand over Sherlock’s face. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And they would never see that. You’d just be some Svengali and I a poor innocent who’d fallen for your lies.”

“Even thought I’m really the poor innocent who fell for your wiles.” He quirked an eyebrow, and John smirked.

“Innocent. Sure. You’re exactly as innocent as I am fashionable.”

“So I take it that I’ll never meet them,” Sherlock said.

John shook his head. “No. One of the best things I did was to cut them out of my life. I thought that ended their influence on me. But it surprises me, sometimes, how deep the poison goes. Although.”

“Hmm?”

“There’s part of me that would desperately love to see them one last time, to let them see how happy I am. How fantastic you are. How incredible and rich and amazing our life is. But.”

“But what?”

“It was never about me being happy.”

He didn’t say what it was about, nor did Sherlock ask. Instead, he pushed John back in the chair.

“Time I exerted more of my wiles on you,” he said, and started kissing him again.


	28. List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John accidentally reveals everything to the Yard when he answers a simple question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I am getting them closer to the Gloriously Romantic Proposal, but they're not quite there yet.

“So what are your plans this weekend?”

“Oh, ring shopping,” John said. Upon reflection, that was not the best way to break the news that (1) you were a couple (2) planning a very long future together.

“For a case?” Lestrade asked.

“Er. No.” It belatedly occurred to John that he was also letting the Yard know that (3) he was definitely not straight. He supposed that he was also revealing that (4) Sherlock wasn't straight either. 

They were all staring at him. All movement had ceased, and most seemed to not be breathing. The only other time NSY was this quiet was at a stakeout. Maybe not even then.

Sherlock was still studying the corpse, seemingly oblivious, but John could see the corners of his mouth quirking up.

“You and Sherlock,” Hopkins finally managed.

“Yes.”

“Are you engaged?”

“Not yet. That’s what the rings are for,” Sherlock said bitingly.

“That and the wedding,” John pointed out.

“Well, yes. But we’ll be engaged first.”

Mostly because there was no point in being engaged after, or Sherlock would have found a way to do it.

“I had no idea,” Lestrade said.

“Why should you?” Sherlock asked. “Did you want us to give you an idea by kissing over a corpse?”

John waited for ‘you see but you don’t observe.’ It didn’t come. The issue, he supposed, was that they had all observed, years before either of them had caught on.

“So you’re not engaged yet, but are planning to be engaged,” Hopkins said, trying valiantly to draw the conversation back.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “John will propose.” As if he'd ordered John to do so, which was so far from the truth but how everyone would understand it.

Everyone turned their attention back to him. He shrugged. “You know how hard he is to surprise.”


	29. Thoughts, Observations, and General Conclusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin: my thoughts on participating and what I’ve learned from this, plus some notes on my writing process and what I’d do differently.  
> Honestly, unless you’re a snoopy writer like I am, you probably don’t want to read this.

I decided to participate in this challenge because I’m at an impasse on several Johnlock works, and this seemed like a good way to prove to myself that I could finish something AND a nice break where I could still be writing. Besides, what else was I doing in February? It’s also been years since I’ve written a proper short story, and this challenge seemed like an excellent way to prove to myself that I’m still able to do so. 

I’d planned to have a short response to the prompt of the day, and that none of them would be connected to each other (*maniacal laughter*). Sigh. Yes. Best-laid plans and all that.

Well. I’ve very pleased I managed several 221Bs, which I thought I was incapable of. Are they works of genius? No. They meet the requirements and sometimes that’s enough. Plus I managed a few drabbles! Wow! Me, writing something around 100 words? Am I feeling all right? (Yes. Fine, but astonished.)

Longer stories come naturally to me, and there’s one that’s attempting to thrash its way to life in these prompts. No idea where it came from: it wasn’t my conscious intention to write it, as I want to finish the Johnlock stories I’m already working on, and it’s not a subject I’d ever think to write about.

Plots are things that happen to me. It is not the best way to write, honestly. 

My general process is to handwrite first. I’ve always enjoyed handwriting, and I find it easier to generate ideas using paper and pen. It’s also easier to scribble bits and pieces in a notebook at work (I also worry about electronic spyware). I would come home and type up everything I’d written, add whatever details were needed to make the concept understandable, and post.

On the weekends I’d stare at the computer screen and if I couldn’t think of anything to get me going I’d dig out my notebook and mess around a bit.

I put everything in one Word document, with the prompt for each day as the title (using Heading 1 to make it easier to navigate) and treating each as a chapter. If I decided I wasn’t going to use a sentence, or several paragraphs, I’d just move them to the bottom of that day’s chapter so I still had them. I’d put the summary and any notes I wanted to post at the top. I’d then copy and paste into A03 using the Rich Text Formatting option (I have a 6pt kerning around my paragraphs, which seems to provide the right amount of spacing) and then change the font color so I’d know exactly what I’d posted. I created a “Misc.” and an “Ideas” chapter for writing and concepts that didn’t fit in with this challenge.

Overall, I’m pleased with what I’ve done, even if I don’t consider any of it polished. I plan to go back through, pull out the stories I like most, and refine them.

I’m sitting at just over 43,000 words now, which is almost 17,000 more than what I’ve posted (so I almost pulled off another NaNo in February!!!). Some scenes didn’t fit in the prompt, and others (like the dragon story) included background information that had no place in what was posted, world building details I might need should I decide to develop the story later on.

It’s probably my process (it’s definitely my process) but I’m exhausted. I also didn’t manage to post every day, and usually the weekends would be consumed by writing so I could attempt to keep up (I’ve also had some Real Life Intrusions, which didn’t help). So. The next time I participate in a prompt challenge I’m going to try to work ahead so I can stay on schedule, and hopefully compensate for any Real Life Intrusions that sap my time, my energy, or both. 

Working a week ahead would also assist with getting stuck. There were several prompts that I initially skipped because I had no idea of what to write for them and some idea of what I’d want to write on the following prompt, and then I’d go back and fill them in later. However, I posted according to prompt schedule, so the finished pieces would have to wait until I completed and posted the scheduled prompt.

A lot of the fun of this was seeing what I came up with. Left to my own devices I’d never have thought of a few of these, and it’s a pleasure to know that I can create and invent still (sometimes it feels like I’ve lost that magical part of me, and it’s lovely to be reminded that it’s still here, waiting and ready to play). I really thought I’d write more fluff – maybe next time?

There are several stories that I’d like to expand, especially _Power Outage_ (I think I’m fond of it because I see what it can be, not what it currently is). It’s a story I would not have come up with on my own. The dragon story has also become something I want to dedicate more effort towards. Again, I keep seeing how cool it could be, and I’ve written quite a bit on it that’s not been posted because I can tell it needs more time and I don’t want to shortchange it.

Some stories got shortchanged: in particular _Argument_ , which was written between two rather intense stories that sapped all of my energy. I’d like to do more with it, especially as it has the potential to be really funny. But that group of stories is trying to grow into an Actual Real Story. I’m not even sure where it came from: all I was trying to do with _Ugly_ was convey that Sherlock still had doubts about their relationship, still felt he wasn’t good enough. Instead, John decided to misunderstand what Sherlock was asking him, and all of a sudden I have a story where Sherlock Holmes is having a crisis over the thought of having children and starts seriously contemplating becoming a parent.

Yeah. I don’t have kids, never wanted them, so I never would have come up with that one on my own and really have no idea where it came from, but quite a few prompts address it or are connected to each other ( _Ugly, Argument, Trinket, Delusion, Greece, Texture,_ and what I originally wrote for _Verbal,_ which in no way resembles what I posted, as well as _Fashion_ and _List_ ). Other prompts could be incorporated to create a larger work ( _Velvet, Boss,_ and _Heels_ ).

A lot of those that could be incorporated are Harry stories. Other than proving to myself I can still write and finish things, she’s the best thing that has come out of participating in this challenge. I’m not sure when, or if, I would have written Harry otherwise. I thought I’d have more of the typical secondary characters (Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly). I hadn’t planned on Harry at all, and she’s been a delightful surprise. I introduced Harry because I needed someone who had pictures of John as a kid for the _Velvet_ prompt. She and Sherlock hit it off, and it’s less like I’m writing and more like I’m jotting down notes when the two of them get together. 

When I do pull all these together into a more comprehensive story, I WILL need to come up with a Gloriously Romantic Proposal. Still trying to figure out what that would be.

I really had fun coming up with the summaries; trying to describe the gist of the story without giving everything away. I think I improved on that as the month wore on, and sometimes developing a summary was my key into knowing what to write for the prompt. 

General thoughts on the quality of the writing: too many adverbs. I’m not one of those writers who think you shouldn’t use them, but I do think that they should be used with due consideration. Adverbs function as filler/shorthand for me (they TELL, they don’t SHOW), and when I revise things I pay especial attention to them, as it means that I should add more details and/or refine the paragraph where they’re used. I ignore adverbs in dialogue, as it’s natural that people would use them when speaking. And sometimes? Only an adverb will do. I also leaned heavily on filler words (just, quite, even, proper, that). All of this would have been resolved with more time to edit.

There's too much use of “was.” Sometimes that’s hard to avoid, but I’m sensitive about it because “was” is generally seen as an indicator of passive voice, and I have struggled against passive voice for years. “Was” doesn’t always mean passive voice. I've learned that I also use it for shorthand, like adverbs: it’s a filler for a place where more details can be added or further writing and editing is needed. I also use it in a “was __ing” structure, which creates a sense of false action AND distances from the narrative (John was reading / John read). For example, _Mystic_ is 649 words. Fifteen of those are “was” which maths out to 2%. That’s not bad but it’s not great. “Was” is not an impactful word.

Another thing I’d concentrate on in a revision is how much I use Thought and Feel verbs. Sometimes they work well, but usually (especially if you’re writing in close/tight third person) they throw you out of the POV. Too much use in indicative of Telling, not Showing. ( _John felt sad_ vs. _Tears burned at the corner of his eyes_ ). It’s a fine line to walk, because too much showing and all of a sudden you have overwrought prose and your story is mired down and not moving anywhere. If you’re in tight third, using “felt” or “saw” or “thought” throws the reader out, because it’s a sudden author intrusion: you’ve started talking about the character, not being the character.

One project idea that occurred to me over the course of filling these prompts would be to take one of the prompts and rewrite it with annotations on why I made changes, etc. It’s very hard to explain how to get rid of passive voice and how to show and not tell, so maybe having an example would help other people. Or maybe I’d just enjoy making it. Who knows? (If you couldn’t tell, I got hammered on passive voice for years but no one ever advised me on how to fix it and it took me a long time to figure out.) 

General thoughts on the stories: Some conversations are rushed, and would not have occurred as quickly in a more polished story. Some stories end abruptly. Others deserve to have more time and attention lavished upon them; details are missing or ghosted over, and there are abrupt transitions that undercut the potential of the story. Overall, I’m quite pleased with them, and happily surprised that most are viable.

Annoyingly, I keep seeing mistakes (right spelling, but wrong or missing word) in posted works. I’m afraid that correcting them will send out notifications that I’ve posted something new again, so… next time I’ll let things sit a day or two, change fonts, and otherwise review them several times before uploading. I think I’d also tag a bit differently by adding specific tags in the top “Notes” as otherwise it’s hard to know what tags apply to a specific chapter. 

Also, I did learn the high of kudos and comments, so now I’m more determined to leave comments as a reader. I feel I failed my fellow participants, as I was so overwhelmed trying to get my stuff out I didn’t read theirs in a timely fashion. I was also trying to avoid reading a prompt I hadn’t written yet, so… yeah. Another area where working a week ahead would help.

This was a great experience. Would recommend. Met some great people, had fun, challenged myself, came up with stories I never would have created otherwise and now have several ideal for projects. It’s a win/win all the way around. 

Up next: finishing some stories that I’ve been working. For NaNoWriMo in 2020 I worked on a longer Johnlock story (Novel. It’s really a novel. Sigh.). Because I was trying to write every day no matter what, several small stories snuck in or scenes that, upon reflection, didn’t fit with the main story but needed more details to stand on their own. (I bested NaNo with 65,000 words and I’m still proud of that: the last time I won NaNo I barely made 50,000.) A couple of the shorter works are almost ready, and I’m looking forward to finishing them and then delving back into the longer work. 

Thanks again for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting!


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